THE 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


BY  TEN  EYCK  WHITE. 


ORIGINALLY  PUBLISHED  IN  THE  CHICAGO  TRIBUNE. 


CHICAGO : 

RAND,    McNALLY  &  COMPANY. 
1884. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1884, 

BY  RAND,  McNALLY  &  CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

A  Daughter's  Sacrifice 222 

A  Foiled  Editor 245 

A  Mediaeval  Romance 151 

A  Modern  Parable 38 

A  New  England  Romance 219 

An  Iconoclastic  Papa 74 

An  Ohio  Romance 187 

A  Parisian  Romance 49 

A  Sacred  Relic 226 

A  Safe  Proposition 243 

A  Sea  Tale 76 

A  Social  Question  Settled   15 

Assisting  the  Deserving 50 

A  Woman's  Speech  . 33 

A  Yule-Tied  Tale .169 

Bertha's  Sacrifice 126 

Better  than  Working 221 

Blanks  Between  the  Stars 46 

Boston  Extremities 12 

Boston  Voluptuousness 213 

Camille 270 

Couldn't  Back 185 

Couldn't  Lose  Him 207 

Croquet  Problem 235 

Deathless  Devotion    276 

Didn't  Figure  on  Papa 7 

Didn't  Get  In 270 

East  Lynne  Reconstructed 107 

Entering  Journalism 52 

Exposing  his  Weakness 182 

Far  in  the  Future   135 

Fifine's  Marriage     145 

(3) 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


Fishing  and  Matrimony -  216 

Forgave  Her  Parent -  258 

Girls  do  not  Sweep 181 

Haunted  by  the  Speech 202 

Herbert's  Death 273 

He  Bluffed  and  Won 79 

Her  Dearest  Wish 240 

Her  Fatal  Foot 176 

Her  Sensitive  Soul -   128 

Her  Tender  Voice 29 

Hiawatha's  Wooing 119 

His  Chilly  Blood.. 249 

How  Harold  Died 227 

How  He  Won  Her 85 

How  She  Saved  Him. 252 

How  to  Regain  Him 196 

How  to  Write  a  Christmas  Story 154 

Humor  to  Order 43 

Improved  Poetry 97 

Improved  Undergarments 57 

Increased  Her  Value 140 

"  L' Assommoir  " in 

Long  on  Dogs 159 

Love  and  Cooking 208 

Love's  Stratagem. 36 

Love's  Test 246 

Met  the  Dog ^ 173 

More  Precious  than  Ever 237 

Myrtle  Got  There 262 

Myrtle's  Reward 9 

Naming  the  Baby 129 

Not  Wise  Enough 174 

Obituary  Gems 194 

On  the  Brink 157 

On  the  Eve  of  Matrimony 229 

Our  Girls 277 

Overwhelming  Odds 280 

Poetry  on  Tap 254 

Points  on  Etiquette  137 

Saved  by  a  Jack- Pot 333 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


PAGE 

She  Got  the  Hat 19 

Social  Romance. 267 

Social  Topics 192 

Songs  for  the  Fireside 104 

Sunrise  and  Sealskin  Sacques 161 

Tender  and  True 218 

The  Beautiful  Snow 27 

The  Broken  Vow 178 

The  Bud  of  Promise  Racket 163 

The  Daughter's  Resolve 231 

TheFatal  Dream 58 

The  Loves  of  the  Mulcaheys 21 

The  Maiden's  Gift 90 

The  Modern  Balaklava 61 

The  Modern  Obituary 31 

TheOld,  Old  Story 93 

The  Other  Mozart 25 

The  Perils  of  Oratory 41 

The  Poet's  Fate 73 

The  Pork-Packer's  Awakening 86 

The  Power  of  Poetry 117 

The  Result  of  a  Raise 260 

The  Siren  and  the  Sucker 123 

The  Society  Reporter 271 

TheStoryof  Atalanta 66 

The  Story  of  Charles 203 

TheStoryof  Lucy 62 

The  Test  of  Love 70 

The  True  Saxon  Spirit 141 

Under  Different  Circumstances 93 

Views  on  Art 8l 

What  He  Could  Stand 101 

What  Rupert  Wanted 94 

What  Shall  we  do  with  our  Pianos  ? 2io 

What  She  Neglected 132 

Why  He  Wept 200 

Why  She  Grieved 167 

Why  She  Loved  Him 265 

Why  they  Parted 188 

Wooed  but  Not  Won 144 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


DIDN'T  FIGURE  ON  PAPA. 

"  I  am  very  rich,  my  darling,"  she  said  softly,  punctu- 
ating her  sentences  with  sweet,  warm  kisses.  "  Already 
I  have  $100,000  worth  of  4  per  cents,  in  my  name,  and 
when  the  leaves  are  turning  red  in  the  golden  October 
days  and  the  fields  are  laughing  in  the  rich  abundance  of 
a  bountiful  harvest,  I  shall  cut  off  the  coupons,  and  when 
papa  dies  he  will  leave  me  nearly  $200,000  more.  Yes, 
my  sweetheart,  I  am  a  very  happy  girl,"  and  a  fair  young 
head  nestled  confidingly  on  the  shoulder  of  the  strong- 
limbed,  hazel-eyed  young  man  to  whom  this  avowal  was 
made.  He  looked  tenderly  down  at  the  brown  tresses 
and  the  invisible  net  that  bound  them  to  the  fair  fore- 
head. Gently  lifting  the  beautiful  face  to  his,  he  pressed 
a  passionate  kiss  on  the  full,  red  lips,  that  seemed  only 
made  for  osculation. 

Turning  his  head  away,  Herbert  Ainsleigh  appeared 
for  a  moment  to  be  wrapped  in  thought.  Then,  kissing 
Miriam  with  a  rich,  warm,  two-for-a-quarter  kiss,  he  said: 
"  Do  you  love  me,  Birdie? " 

She  gave  answer  by  placing  her  soft,  white  arms  around 
his  neck,  and  throwing  herself  madly  on  his  shirt  front. 

"  Do  not  hug  so  hard,  darling,  an'  you  love  me,  or  my 

(7) 


8  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


collar-stud  will  raise  a  carbuncle  on  the  back  of  my  neck," 
he  said  in  low,  mellow  tones. 

"  It  is  only  the  deep,  passionate  longing  of  my  love, 
Herbert;  it  recks  not  of  carbuncles.  But  you  are  right. 
Too  much  pressure  on  the  cervical  vertebra  will  cause  an 
exostosis.  My  professor  of  anatomy  told  me  that." 

"  And  we  will  be  married  in  the  fall,  my  sweet? " 

"  Yes,  Herbert,  in  the  rich,  hazy,  sensuous  days  of  Indian 
summer,  when  the  low  note  of  the  farmer's  boy  seeking 
the  lost  cow  is  heard  as  he  sits  on  the  vine-embowered 
stile  and  blasphemes  until  the  fire-fly  leaves  for  a  cooler 
spot.  You  must  take  all  my  money,  Herbert;  it  must  be 
yours  to  do  as  you  will  with  it,  to  attain  the  glorious 
fame  that  awaits  you;  for  I  know  that  my  love's  name 
will  some  day  be  known  through  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  land.  Surely,  you  have  an  ambition? " 

"  I  have,"  said  Herbert,  kissing  her  while  she  caught 
her  breath. 

"  And  you  will  not  let  any  false  pride  stand  in  the  way 
of  using  my  money  to  attain  the  height  you  fain  would 
reach? " 

"  No,  darling,  I  will  not.  You  say  you  have  $100,000 
in  4  per  cents.  It  is  enough.  To-morrow  I  will  act,  and 
in  less  than  a  day  my  name  will  be  as  familiar  through- 
out the  world  as  that  of  England's  proud  Queen." 

"  Oh,  Herbert,  what  will  you  do?  " 

"I  shall  purchase  Maud  S." 

******* 

Two  minutes  later  a  human  form  fell  with  a  dull  thud 
on  the  front  porch  of  the  haughty  pork-packer's  resi- 
dence. It  was  Herbert  Ainsleigh.  The  old  man  had 
fired  him  out. 


LAKE  SI  DP:  MUSINGS. 


MYRTLE'S   REWARD. 

At  sunset  on  a  beautiful  day  in  June  a  solitary  horse- 
car  might  have  been  seen  ascending  the  brow  of  a  hill. 
As  the  dappled  palfrey  which  drew  it  bravely  on  reached 
the  crest  of  the  eminence  and  paused  for  an  instant  be- 
fore beginning  the  downward  journey,  the  intelligent 
beast  gave  a  snort  of  terror,  and  sprang  so  suddenly  to 
one  side  that  the  helmeted  knight  in  whose  womanly- 
white  hands  were  gathered  the  reins  was  yanked  violently 
over  the  brake,  and  most  of  the  air  knocked  out  of  his 
system  ere  he  could  regain  his  position  abaft  the  dash- 
board, and  again  head  the  terrified  charger  in  the  direction 
of  Western  avenue. 

"By  my  halidom!  "  quoth  the  knight.  "St.  Julien 
must  have  seen  an  oat." 

It  was  true.  Some  roystering  son  of  Blue  Island  ave- 
nue, going  home  with  many  a  flagon  of  bock  beer  beneath 
his  corselet,  had  with  wasteful  hand  thrown  by  the  road- 
side no  less  than  several  oats,  at  the  sight  of  which  the 
neighing  steed  which  so  gallantly  breasted  the  brow  of 
the  hill  at  the  opening  of  this  chapter,  was  stricken  with 
the  terror  that  always  comes  to  beasts  when  that  which 
they  have  ne'er  before  beheld  comes  suddenly  within 
the  vista  of  their  gaze. 

"Curses  on  the  horse!  he  has  broken  my  "suspender!  " 
exclaimed  Roderigo  O'Rourke,  eighth  Duke  of  Wexford, 
as  he  wound  the  lines  around  the  brake  and  spliced  his 
pants  with  a  string;. 

In  a  corner  of  the  car  sits  Myrtle  Hathaway,  her 
pure,  passionless  face  with  wine-red  lips  pressed  closely 


16  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


to  the  window.  She  is  pure  as  the  driven  snow,  and 
chaste  as  an  ice-wagon.  Two  years  ago  she  was  the 
petted  idol  of  doting  parents — the  pampered  child  of 
luxury  and  unlimited  confectionery — but  one  soft, 
sensuous  day  in  summer,  when  the  fields  were  laughing 
in  the  golden  glory  of  an  ample  harvest,  her  father 
came  home  and  said  to  her  in  tear-choked  tones: 
"We  must  sleep  in  the  woodshed  to-night;  this  house 
is  no  longer  mine.  All  that  I  possessed  has  been  lost 
forever." 

Myrtle  did  not  question  him,  did  not  seek  to  intrude 
upon  the  sacred  precincts  of  his  grief,  but  went  silently 
away  and  blew  in  her  last  quarter  for  ice-cream. 

George  W.  Hathaway  did  not  long  survive  the  horse- 
race that  swept  away  his  fortune,  and  in  the  fall  they 
buried  him  in  the  sun-kissed  cemetery  beyond  the  beer 
garden,  away  from  the  noise  and  turmoil  of  the  great 
city.  But  Myrtle,  although  accustomed  to  every  luxury 
that  credit  could  purchase,  was  possessed  of  a  brave 
heart  and  large  feet,  and  had  gone  forth  to  battle  with 
the  world  and  earn  her  own  living.  "  I  will  gain  my 
daily  bread,"  she  said;  but  after  learning  that  making 
seventeen  shirts  for  eight  cents  was  the  most  lucrative 
operation  open  to  her,  she  had  concluded  to  change  her 
subscription  to  the  tri-weekly. 

On  the  opposite  seat  of  the  car  from  Myrtle  sat  Bertha 
Redingote.  The  girls  had  moved  in  the  same  social 
circle  in  the  days  when  Myrtle  lolled  idly  in  the  lap  of 
luxury,  but  now  that  she  sat  on  one  knee  Bertha  did  not 
recognize  her.  But  Myrtle  cared  not  for  this.  "  Let 
Bertha  flaunt  her  prosperity  and  grenadine  polonaise  in 
my  face,  if  she  will,"  she  had  said,  "  the  time  may  come 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  \  i 


when  I  shall  again  be  heading  the  procession,  and  if  it 
does,  I  shall  have  a  pool  or  two  on  myself." 

"  Leavitt  street,"  said  the  conductor,  his  voice  arousing 
Myrtle  from  the  reverie  into  which  she  had  fallen.  Both 
girls  left  the  car.  On  the  corner,  his  choke-me-to-death 
collar  looking  wierdly  white  beneath  the  fitful  glare  of  the 
West  Side  gas,  stood  Ethelbert  de  Courcey — "  Good-bye, 
John,"  the  boys  called  him,  because  they  said  that  name 
was  easier  to  remember,  and  had  a  Cook  county  tinge  to 
it.  He  was  a  good  young  man — almost  too  good  to  be 
true — and  very  rich.  His  wealth  made  him  the  object  of 
maneuvering  on  the  part  of  designing  mothers  with 
marriageable  daughters,  but  thus  far  he  had  escaped 
unscathed.  Both  girls  knew  him.  Bertha  advanced 
with  a  witching  Ogden  avenue  smile  on  her  face,  as  if  to 
claim  his  company  in  her  homeward  walk;  but  he  heeded 
her  not.  Advancing  quickly  to  Myrtle's  side,  he  said: 

"  May  I  see  you  home,  Miss  Hathaway? " 

"Yes,"  replied  the  girl,  the  pink  suffusion  of  a  blush 
hustling  rapidly  over  her  cheek  as  she  took  his  arm. 

On  the  way  to  the  humble  pie-foundry  where  she 
fought  the  bedbugs,  they  talked  upon  the  current  topics 
of  the  day — the  cable-cars,  how  Maud  S.  would  drive  to 
the  pole,  Mr.  Beecher's  indigestion,  etc.;  but  presently 
Ethelbert's  voice  sank  lower,  his  tones  became  more 
tender,  and  he  told  the  blushing  girl  the  story  of  his  love 
— of  how  he  fain  would  make  her  his  West  Washington 
street  bride.  When  he  had  finished,  Myrtle  looked  up 
into  his  eyes — those  eyes  so  tender  and  true — and,  with 
a  little  happy  sob,  called  his  bluff. 


12  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


BOSTON  EXTREMITIES. 

"  Do  you  like  apple  fritters?  " 

The  November  sun,  strangely  beautiful  in  its  deep 
crimson  glow,  was  sinking  slowly  into  a  mass  of  dull 
gray  clouds  that  were  piled  up  in  the  western  horizon, 
and  casting  such  a  bright,  aureate  glow  on  the  landscape 
as  to  remind  one  of  the  fabled  time  when  the  gods  played 
with  blocks  of  gold  that  filled  the  world  with  their  daz- 
zling gleam.  Gwendolen  Mahaffy  sat  at  the  window  of 
Distress  Warrant  Castle,  and,  gazing  wistfully  out  at  the 
scene  which  nature — mother  of  all  art — had  pictured  in 
such  vivid  colors,  asked  of  him  who  stood  beside  her 
the  question  with  which  this  chapter  opens. 

Very  beautiful  was  Gwendolen — a  calm,  pensive  beauty 
that  witched  men  with  a  subtle  influence  and  kept 
them  blindly  following  the  ignis  fatuus  of  a  hoped-for 
love  that  could  never  exist;  kept  them  willing  vassals 
to  a  passion  that  finally  left  them  ghastly  wrecks  on  the 
wind-swept  sea  of  shattered  hopes. 

It  was  this  beauty — this  fatal  four-flush  beauty — that 
kept  Harold  Nonesuch  by  Gwendolen's  side.  Her  brow, 
broad  and  white,  her  skin,  delicate  as  a  young  rose-leaf, 
with  the  faint  flush  on  her  cheeks,  baffled  description;  but 
it  was  in  her  eyes,  large,  dark,  and  shadowed  by  their 
lashes  until  their  violet  depths  looked  black,  that  her 
chief  beauty  lay.  But  what  was  beyond  poet  to  phrase 
or  artist  to  reproduce  was  her  deep,  intellectual  nature 
and  appetite  for  pie,  softened  by  a  spirituality  of  soul 
that  would  often  make  her  stub  her  toe  when  she  thought 
about  it.  Hers  was  a  loveliness  like  that  of  a  delicate 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  13 


tropical  flower,  which  blooms  but  to  perish  in  all  its 
beauty — too  fragile  for  the  storms  and  sins  of  earth,  too 
soilless  and  sacred  for  this  life.  Gwendolen  had  often 
thought  of  this  as  she  lay  in  her  bed  at  night  watching 
the  stars  that  seemed  like  sentinels  keeping  a  silent  vigil 
over  a  sin-stained  world,  and  then,  when  perhaps  all  the 
household  were  sleeping,  she  would  get  up  and  eat  cold 
toast.  There  was  ever  a  wistful  yearning  in  her  heart 
for  the  unknowable — an  eager  seeking  for  something, 
she  knew  not  what,  that  seemed  forever  and  ever  just 
beyond  the  back  fence  of  her  soul. 

And  so  the  years  had  gone  on  in  their  silent  march  to 
the  tomb  of  the  ages,  until  Gwendolen,  standing  on  the 
verge  of  womanhood,  had  received  from  Harold  None- 
such the  greatest  compliment  that  man  can  pay  to  woman 
— an  offer  to  try  and  settle  for  board.  Never  for  an 
instant  had  she  suspected  the  deep  passionate  admiration 
that  this  man's  soul  held  for  her,  and  of  which  he  had  just 
spoken  in  tones  that  were  tremulous  with  hopeful  expect- 
ancy. And  then,  mastering  by  a  mighty  effort  the  shock 
that  his  unexpected  words  had  caused,  she  had  answered 
him  with  the  question,  so  wierd  in  its  realism  as  to  be 
almost  grotesque,  that  appears  above. 

For  an  instant  Harold  seemed  dazed  by  the  girl's 
words,  and  stood  silently  beside  a  marble  statue  of  Psyche, 
striving  to  repress  the  terrible  grief  that  threatened  to 
master  every  emotion  of  his  being.  As  he  stood  there, 
the  long  evening  shadows  slanting  across  the  sward  and 
the  purple  mists  of  Indian  summer  crowning  the  hills 
with  their  royal  haze,  he  felt  that  life  without  the  love  of 
this  woman  should  be  a  Sahara  of  grief,  an  endless  desert 
of  disappointed  hope  and  crushed  ambition,  over  which 


I4  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


the  scorching  winds  of  sorrow  and  anguish  would  ever 
blow  with  pitiless  fury. 

And  then,  just  as  a  sob  was  welling  up  from  his  vest, 
he  felt  a  pair  of  soft,  warm  arms  twined  lovingly  around 
his  neck,  and  close  beside  his  own  there  was  pressed  a 
cameo  face  that  seemed  in  its  spirituelle  beauty  like  a 
vision  from  another  world.  There  were  tears  in  the 
violet  eyes  that  looked  into  his  so  pleadingly,  and  the 
curves  of  the  drooping  mouth  were  tense  with  the  agony 
of  an  all-powerful  sorrow.  For  an  instant  neither  spoke, 
and  Gwendolen  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"You  must  have  known,  Harold,"  she  said,  in  tones 
that  were  hoarse  with  agony,  "  that  for  months  my  heart 
has  been  in  your  keeping,  and  you  must  also  have  known 
that  my  love  is  no  ephemeral  passion — no  let-me-take- 
your-slate-pencil-and-you-can-chew-my-gum-at-recess 
affection  that  is  here  to-day,  and  to-morrow  where  is  it? 
And  yet,  despite  this  fact,  which  I  so  freely  acknowledge, 
and  of  which  I  am  more  than  proud,  I  can  never  be 
your  wife." 

"Why  not?"  he  asks,  in  tones  that  are  almost  a  sob. 

"Because,"  answers  Gwendolen,  "I  have  cold,  Boston 
feet." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  15 


A  SOCIAL  QUESTION  SETTLED. 

"  Is  the  society  editor  in? "  asked  a  rather  pretty  lady, 
as  she  swung  the  door  of  the  editorial  rooms  gently  open, 
one  summer  afternoon. 

Nobody  noticed  her  for  a  moment.  But  finally,  the 
trotting-horse  statistician,  who  was  explaining  to  the 
dramatic  critic  why  "  Muldoon's  Picnic  "  was  a  greater 
drama  than  "  Daniel  Rochat,"  became  aware  of  the 
presence  of  one  of  the  gentle  sex,  and  waved  his  some- 
what profuse  hand  in  the  general  direction  of  a  chair, 
the  movement  being  understood  as  an  invitation  to  be 
seated.  The  young  lady  accepted  the  proffered  hospi- 
tality, and  remained  silent. 

"  It's  no  use  talking,"  continued  the  horse  editor, 
resuming  his  conversation  with  the  dramatic  critic, 
"you  ducks  that  come  raw  from  a  college  and  fall 
against  a  newspaper  office,  thinking  that  you  are  too 
fly  for  any  use,  are  just  as  liable  to  make  a  break 
as  anybody  else.  If  '  Daniel  Rochat '  is  a  good  play, 
I'm  a  Chinaman,  and  that  settles  it.  Now,  look  at  the 
heroine — that  Henderson  girl.  She's  gone  on  Dan,  ain't 
she?" 

The  dramatic  critic  admitted  that  such  was  the  case. 

"And  Dan,"  continued  the  horse  editor,  "is  just  loony 
about  her.  Everything  is  lovely.  The  old  lady  doesn't 
buck-jump  or  drive  on  one  line,  as  old  ladies  are  apt  to 
do  when  anybody  wants  to  marry  a  girl  of  theirs,  and 
there  is  no  old  man  to  steer  clear  of,  or  dog  to  poison,  or 
anything  that  generally  makes  it  tough  work  for  a  fellow 
to  catch  a  girl  these  times.  They  get  the  word  trotting 


1 6  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


level,  and  go  down  to  the  quarter-pole  like  a  double 
team,  don't  they? " 

The  critic  nodded  assent. 

"  What  does  Dan  think — what  has  he  got  a  right  to 
think?  He  says  to  himself:  '  Here  is  a  girl  that  it  will  do 
to  buy  pools  on.  She  ain't  going  to  break,  or  strike  a 
pace.  A  man  can  go  through  life  with  her  at  any  gait  he 
likes,  and  if  somebody  knocks  a  spoke  out  once  in  a 
while,  or  pinches  him  a  little  too  close  to  the  pole,  she 
won't  dive  into  the  fence  and  break  her  check-rein,  and 
like  enough  get  distanced.'  That's  the  kind  of  talk  Dan 
gives  himself,  ain't  it?" 

"It  is  possible  that  you  are  correct,"  replied  the  critic, 
"although  I  must  confess  that  at  Yale — 

"Never  mind  about  Yale;  we  are  on  Dearborn  street, 
this  afternoon,"  said  the  repository  of  information  con- 
cerning Maud  S.  "  What  I  want  to  get  at  is  that  Sardou 
was  chewing  on  the  wrong  apple  when  he  wrote  the  play. 
This  Henderson  girl  is  mashed  on  Dan  and  wants  to 
marry  him.  They  paw  around  for  a  couple  of  acts, 
and  finally  the  date  for  the  performance  is  fixed.  The 
fellow  with  the  red  sash — he  joins  'em  according  to 
the  civil  code.  Then  the  girl  says  the  race  is  a  mile 
and  repeat,  so  to  speak,  and  expects  the  preacher  to 
marry  'em  again.  Dan  says,  not  much;  no  preacher  in 
his.  Girl  cries  and  grabs  him  by  the  neck,  and  bur- 
rows in  his  shirt  front  with  her  nose,  but  Danny  doesn't 
weaken.  '  No  parson  for  me,'  he  says.  '  I  love  you 
fondly,  madly,  but  I  am  not  a  chump.'  The  girl  bursts 
out  crying  and  leaves  him.  Next  day  Dan  wants  to 
hedge,  and  says  he'll  go  the  whole  racket,  church  and 
all.  Then  the  girl  says  she's  changed  her  mind  and 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  17 


doesn't  love  him  any  more.  Now,  in  'Muldoon's  Pic- 
nic ' — " 

"Excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  said  the  young  lady,  "but 
which  one  of  you  is  the  society  editor?" 

"We  don't  keep  one  on  this  paper,  Miss,"  said  the 
horse  critic,  "but  the  entire  outfit  takes  a  crack  at  that 
style  of  journalistic  labor  once  in  a  while.  Is  there  any- 
thing we  can  do  for  you?" 

"I  was  going  to  ask,"  said  the  girl,  "if  it  would  be 
too  much  trouble  for  you  to  give  me  some  hints  as  to  the 
proper  way  to  receive  and  dispose  of  guests  at  a  wedding; 
how  the  supper  should  be  served,  and-so-forth." 

"  You  want  to  know  what  is  en  riggle  and  recherchy, 
as  the  French  say,"  remarked  the  horse  man.  "We  can 
give  you  the  correct  pointer.  Are  you  the  blushing 
bride?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  rather  weak  voice;  "that 
is — " 

"Oh,  I  understand,"  said  the  horse  editor.  "I  appre- 
ciate your  feelings.  I  was  once  young  and  bashful 
myself.  Now,  about  this  wedding.  The  receiving  part 
is  easy.  After  the  nuptial  ceremony  is  concluded,  you 
and  Mike — " 

"  But  his  name  isn't  Mike,"  said  the  young  lady.  "  His 
name  is — " 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  about  that,"  said  the  equine  journalist. 
"  Of  course  his  name  is  Adelbert,  or  Reginald,  or  some 
other  dry-goods-clerk  nonsense,  but  in  giving  advice  we 
always  allude  to  the  sucker  as  Mike,  and  call  the  bride 
Hannah.  It  saves  time.  Now,  after  you  and  Mike  are 
married,  you  want  to  jog  along  home  and  plant  your- 
selves at  the  back  end  of  the  parlor.  Better  have  a 


!8  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


floral  bell,  or  something  like  that  to  stand  under,  because 
it  is  considered  the  correct  thing,  and  makes  a  better  toot 
ensemble,  as  the  French  say.  Then,  the  guests,  they 
get  in  line  and  go  by  you  on  a  slow  walk — a  kind  of  we- 
buried-him-sadly-by-dead-of-iiight  clip,  and  you  shake 
hands  with  each  one  and  say,  'Thanks,  awfully';  and 
they  look  at  you  and  Mike  as  if  you  were  a  couple  of 
prize  cattle,  and  feel  sorry  for  you." 

"And  the  supper?"  said  the  young  lady. 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  supper.  Well,  at  some  weddings  they 
feed  in  the  dining-room,  and  at  others  each  guest  sits  on 
a  chair  and  has  his  lunch  brought  to  him.  Now,  I  always 
advise  the  use  of  chopped  feed  at  weddings — bring  on 
the  ham  sa'ndwiches  and  ice-cream  at  the  same  time. 
They  can't  eat  the  sandwiches  first,  you  know,  because  if 
they  do  the  cream  will  melt,  and  if  they  throw  in  the 
cream  to  start  with  the  sandwiches  will  act  like  Banquos 
Ghost — they  'will  not  down';"  and  the  horse  reporter 
winked  vigorously  at  the  dramatic  critic,  in  order  to 
attract  the  attention  of  that  person  to  his  able  joke. 
But  the  critic  was  trying  to  smoke  a  cigar  that  the  ad- 
vance agent  of  the  whale  had  given  him,  and  did  not 
look. 

"Of  course,"  continued  the  biographer  of  Goldsmith 
Maid,  "it  would  be  better  if  you  could  give  each  guest 
a  box-stall  and  throw  the  feed  in  early  in  the  evening, 
but  this  is  not  often  practicable,  so  you  had  better  keep 
on  the  old  racket." 

"I  am  sure  I  am  very  thankful,' sir,  for  the  interest 
you  have  taken  in  this  matter,"  said  the  girl,  "and  I 
shall  follow  your  advice.  Which  is  the  way  down  stairs, 
please?" 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  19 


"There  are  two  ways,"  replied  the  horse  reporter. 
"You  can  jump  down  the  hatchway,  or  take  the  stairs. 
Our  elevator  never  runs." 


SHE  GOT  THE  HAT. 

It  was  a  gray-haired  editor 

Sat  silent  in  his  room, 
And  strove  with  shears  and  pen  and  brain 

To  work  him  up  a  boom. 

In  came  a  charming,  blue-eyed  maid, 

Her  hair  a  silv'ry  sheen; 
Full  many  a  young  and  manly  heart 

This  girl  had  smashed,  I  ween. 

She  stepped  up  to  the  editor 
And  said,   "  Good  sir,  I  hear 

That  to  the  tales  of  injured  wives 
You  lend  a  willing  ear." 

"Just  so,  my  bonny  lass,"  he  said, 

"  Sit  ye  in  yon  arm-chair; 
Tis  sad  a  man  should  club  a  bride 

So  new,  and  fresh,  and  fair." 

"  No,  no,  good  editor,"  quoth  she, 

"  Not  under  club  I  quake. 
And  you're  a  horrid,  nasty  thing. 

To  make  so  bad  a  break. 

"  My  hubby,  as  of  sour  mash 

Or  life,  of  me  is  fond, 
And  every  eve  his  manly  arm 

.My  waist  encircles  round. 


20  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"  His  cruelty  consists  in  this: 

He  absolutely  says 
That  I  shall  never,  never,  wear 

The  new  hat,  called  '  The  Fez'!  " 

And  with  these  words  a  silent  tear 
Coursed  down  her  pearly  cheek. 

Heaven  knows  the  brawny  editor 
As  any  child  was  weak. 

"  The  heartless  villain!  "  cried  he  out, 

' '  To  wound  a  tender  heart : 
Small  wonder  that  you  weeping  sit; 

But  I  will  take  your  part." 

"  Go  hence  unto  your  wicked  spouse, 
And  say  to  him  that  I 

Have  sent  by  thee  these  warning  words- 
Then  notice  him  ki-yi. 

"  Say  that,  unless  he  gives  you  leave 

The  gaudy  '  Fez'  to  wear, 
My  columns  tell  of  how  he  fought 

The  tiger  in  his  lair." 

The  happy  bride  went  sailing  forth — 

She  made  the  awful  bluff; 
The  husband  fell  upon  his  knees — 

He  could  not  say  enough. 

The  "  Fez"  was  bought,  and  often  now 

The  editor,  so  gray, 
Smiles  blandly  as  it  past  him  goes, 

Bound  for  the  matinee. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  21 


THE  LOVES  OF  THE  MULCAHEYS. 

"So,  Constance  has  given  him  the  shake?' 

"Yes." 

"  Tis  well  the  Lady  Gertrude  hath  not  heard  of  this, 
else  were  it  better  for  Reginald  that  the  broad  demesne 
o'er  which  he  rules  so  haughtily  held  lightly  in  its  grass- 
covered  bosom  his  pallid  corse.  The  proud,  vindictive 
spirit  of  the  Mulcaheys  will  not  brook  an  insult,  and,  by 
my  halidom!  'twere  well  for  the  young  Lord  of  Tomp- 
kinsville  that  he  wear  a  steel  corselet  o'er  his  perjured 
heart  this  night  ere  the  steel-shod  hoofs  of  his  palfrey 
are  heard  crossing  the  drawbridge  that  leads  to  the  Castle 
Mahoney.  Mark  you  this,  Wilifred,  'tis  not  a  light 
offense  that  one,  e'en  though  he  be  young,  and  rich,  and 
handsome,  step  in  between  a  Mulcahey  and  the  one  he 
loves." 

It  was  Miriam  McCarthy,  eighth  Duchess  of  Conne- 
marra,  who  spoke  these  words,  and  Wilifred  O'Brien 
gazed  at  her  with  a  sad  earnestness  as  she  leaned  grace- 
fully over  the  back-yard  fence,  her  sunny  countenance 
flecked  here  and  there  by  a  dash  of  soap-suds,  whose 
delicate  whiteness  brought  out  in  bold  relief  the  vivid 
colors  on  her  roseate  complexion.  Wilifred  was  a  pale, 
intellectual  youth,  and  prided  himself  on  his  noble  an- 
cestry. Once  he  had  said  to  the  Jones  boy  (whose  folks 
had  always  lived  in  this  country):  "I  am  the  descendant 
of  a  noble  race.  The  blood  of  three  kings  flows  in  my 
veins."  But  the  Jones  boy  had  only  laughed  in  his 
coarse,  brutal  way,  and  replied  that  some  day  a  man 
would  come  along  with  a  flush  and  capture  the  three 


22  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


kings.  Wilifred  had  brooded  over  this  and  other  evi- 
dences of  the  barbarism  that  was  continually  outcrop- 
ping in  the  lives  of  the  poor,  plebeian  Americans  whom 
he  was  compelled  sometimes  to  meet,  and  his  naturally 
sunny  disposition  had  become  so  soured  that  he  would 
often  put  down  the  hod  and  mutter  strange  oaths  to  him- 
self, taking  no  heed  of  aught  that  was  passing  in  the 
busy  world  around  him  until  a  chunk  of  plaster  from  the 
hand  of  the  head  bricklayer  flew  merrily  in  his  direction, 
and  he  hastened  to  relieve  the  Duke  of  Galway,  who 
should  have  been  two  places  below  him  on  the  ladder. 
He  loved  Miriam  McCarthy  with  a  wild,  passionate,  soul- 
melting  love  that,  like  the  mighty  glaciers  of  the  Alps, 
bore  on  its  outward  surface  no  indication  of  the  tremen- 
dous force  within.  Two  years  ago  she  had  first  seen  him 
as  he  walked  with  his  proud,  County  Antrim  stride  along 
the  streets  amid  the  blare  of  trumpets,  the  rattle  of 
drums,  and  the  graceful  and  fiery  prancing  of  the  tem- 
porarily-off-duty omnibus  horses,  as  the  United  Sons  of 
Hibernia  swept  with  stately  grace  past  her  ancestral 
home  on  Archer  avenue.  "  I  do  not  care,"  she  said 
softly  to  herself,  blushing  as  she  spoke,  "  if  he  has  got 
his  grandfather's  plug  hat  on;  to  me  he  is  all  that  is 
noble,  and  manly,  and  pure,  and  good." 

Two  weeks  later  they  had  plighted  their  troth,  and 
were  now  looking  forward  with  all  the  rosy  hopefulness  of 
youth  to  the  halcyon  days  when  they  would  be  forever 
bound  together  by  the  holy  tie  of  matrimony,  and  a  dim- 
pled babe  coo  forth  merrily  its  dulcet  cries  when  the  colic 
came  like  a  thief  in  the  night  and  the  paregoric  bottle 
had  vanished  into  the  deep  mystery  of  the  hereafter. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  23 


"Are  you  going  to  the  wake  this  evening?" 

It  was  thus  that  Pizarro  McGinness,  the  young  Earl 
of  Ballyhooly,  spoke  to  Miriam  McCarthy  two  hours 
after  the  above  conversation  had  taken  place. 

"Who's  the  corpse?"  asked  Miriam,  a  bright  smile 
illumining  her  features  at  thought  of  the  unexpected 
society  event  which  had  come  to  her. 

"Cecil  Clancarty,"  replied  Pizarro. 

Miriam's  heart  beat  a  great  throb.  "  So,  then,"  she 
thought,  "this  proud  beauty  who  won  my  brother's  love 
two  summers  ago,  only  to  cast  it  aside  when  the  picnic 
season  was  over,  as  carelessly  as  papa  slings  his  dinner- 
pail  into  the  corner  when  he  returns  in  the  gloaming  from 
the  horse-railway  barns,  is  dead?  She  did  not  care,  when 
my  golden-haired  Rupert  came  home  full  as  a  tick  and 
carefully  placed  his  boots  on  the  etagere,  before  retiring. 
The  poor  boy's  heart  was  breaking  for  love  of  her,  but 
she  laughed  his  suit  to  scorn;  and  now  she  has  died  amid 
all  her  follies,  and  sin,  and  six-button  kid  gloves."  Then, 
mastering  the  emotion  which  momentarily  almost  over- 
came her,  Miriam  turned  to  Pizarro  and  said:  "What 
happened  her?" 

"Aneurism  of  the  heart,  I  believe,"  was  the  reply. 

"You  don't  say  so!"  exclaimed  Miriam.  "I  always 
said  she  would  kill  herself  some  day,  the  way  she  pow- 
dered and  painted." 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man,  a  trifle  impatiently,  "will 
you  be  there  to-night?" 

"Yes,  I'll  come." 

"And  may  I  escort  you  home?" 

"  I  will  see  you  later  on  that  point,"  was  the  witty  res- 
ponse; and,  with  a  light,  merry  ha-ha-villain-I-scorn-your- 


24  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS 


proffered-suit  laugh  on  her  lips,  Miriam  sprang  lightly 
from  the  ash-barrel  on  which  she  was  seated,  and  began 

to  shoo  geese  out  of  the  front  yard. 

******* 

"  I  can  not  allow  you  to  go  home  with  me,  Mr.  Mc- 
Ginnis,"  said  Miriam,  as  she  left  the  wake. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  my  betrothed,  Mr.  O'Brien,  has  told  me  that 
you  are  lacking  in  the  suvoir  vtvre,  which  every  truly-cul- 
tured gentleman  should  possess;  in  other  words,  you  are 
a  'far  down.' " 

"If  I  had  him  here,"  hisses  the  young  man  through  his 
clenched  teeth,  "methinks  my  wealth  of  box-toed  boot 
would  toy  with  his  custom-made  pants  awhile." 

"Would  it,  indeed?"  said  a  voice  from  the  steps  of  a 
neighboring  sour-mash  emporium.  "  Then  defend  your- 
self as  best  you  may." 

Each  man  spat  on  his  hands  and  sailed  in.  As  they 
rolled  around  on  the  sidewalk,  Miriam  shrank  in  terror 
to  the  side  of  the  building.  The  men  fought  as  only 
those  nerved  by  desperation  can  fight.  Suddenly  they 
disappeared  from  view,  a  dull  thud  being  the  only  clew 
to  their  whereabouts.  One  glance,  and  the  girl  saw  all. 

They  had  fallen  through  a  coal-hole. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  25 


THE  OTHER  MOZART. 

It  is  the  20th  day  of  July — a  day  when  the  sky  is  one 
cloudless  sheet  of  azure,  and  the  sun  shines  down  upon 
the  brown  earth  with  an  intensity  that  promises  to 
change  the  tasseled  corn  in  one  day  from  golden  yellow 
to  harvest  brown. 

Vivian  and  Myrtle  are  walking  slowly  down  the  grassy 
dell  where  blossom  in  rich  abundance  delicate  lilies  of 
the  valley,  pink  orchises,  old-fashioned  bachelor's-but- 
tons, blue  veronica,  and  golden  celendine,  wild  convol- 
vulus and  sweet  honeysuckle.  They  are  strolling  hand 
in  hand  now,  having  but  just  left  McMurtry  Hall,  whose 
turrets  and  buttresses  gleam  in  the  morning  sun  with  a 
brightness  and  cheeriness  that  form  a  striking  contrast 
to  their  solidly  sullen  appearance  as  they  beat  off  the 
snows  of  January  or  the  fierce  rain-storms  of  the  early 
spring.  For  nearly  a  twelvemonth  these  two  have  been 
betrothed.  It  was  in  the  soft,  sensuous  days  of  the 
Indian  summer  that  Vivian  had  told  Myrtle  his  love. 
He  remembered  the  hour  well.  It  was  the  day  after 
Maud  S.  had  beaten  the  record,  and  Vivian  was  broke. 
When  a  little  boy  sitting  on  his  father's  knee,  his  tangled 
yellow  hair  falling  like  a  golden  halo  on  the  ancestral 
vest,  his  sire  had  told  him  that  time  waited  for  no  man. 
Vivian  remembered  this,  and  when  he  had  grown  into 
sturdy  manhood,  and  Maud  S.  started  against  the  record, 
all  his  pools  were  on  time.  He  learned  too  late  when 
the  cold,  green  waves  of  adversity  were  rolling  over  his 
soul  and  some  luckier  sucker  had  all  his  money,  that  an 
adage  was  no  better  than  any  other  pointer.  But  in  those 


26  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


sad,  bitter  days  the  love  of  Myrtle  had  come  to  him  as 
does  water  to  the  parched  traveler  through  the  desert, 
and  beckoned  him  to  the  mystic  dreamland  of  a  pure 
affection.  He  had  been  a  wild,  reckless  boy,  not  bad  at 
heart,  but  with  a  scornful  contempt  of  the  hollow,  glit- 
tering world  of  fashion  in  which  he  moved — the  beauti- 
ful women  who  trifled  with  men's  hearts  as  a  child  plays 
with  pretty  toys,  the  bright  smile  that  concealed  a  can- 
kered heart,  or  the  merry  laugh  that  hid  from  all  the 
world  a  beaten  four-flush.  Into  this  life  Myrtle  Mc- 
Murtry  had  come  like  a  revelation.  He  had  seen  her  at 
a  soiree  dansante  given  by  the  Chicago  Historical  Society, 
and  noticed  her  bright,  ingenue  face,  as  she  stood,  fair 
and  stately  as  a  japonica,  against  the  wall.  They  were 
introduced  by  Bertie  Cecil. 

"  Do  you  love  music? "  she  asked. 

"Passionately,"  replied  Vivian.  "I  can  whistle  'The 
Skids  are  Out  To-day,'  perfectly,  and  I  never  heard  it  be- 
fore last  week." 

"  How  quite,"  said  Myrtle. 

"Altogether  too-too,"  was  the  answer,  in  low  soft  tones 
that  made  the  girl  feel  instantly  that  he  loved  her. 

"They  tell  me  you  are  very  wicked,  Mr.  Simpson,"  said 
Myrtle,  as  the  sound  of  a  Strauss  waltz  floated  in  from 
the  ball-room.  "  Is  it  so? " 

"Well,  I  have  always  tried  to  keep  up  with  the  proces- 
sion," was  his  answer.  "  I  suppose  you  will  hate  me  for 
that?" 

"Oh  no,"  responded  the  girl  quickly.  "It  is  the 
namby-pamby  men  that  are  distasteful  to  me.  I  like  a 
man  whose  blood  runs  wine,  not  water." 

Vivian  did  not  answer.     "  If  she  had  said  sour  mash 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  27 


instead  of  wine,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "I  could 
have  a  front  seat  in  her  affections." 

"Do  you  like  Mozart?"  she  asked,  suddenly. 

"  No,"  said  Vivian.  "  I  lost  eighty  dollars  on  him  when 
he  was  beaten  in  a  mile-dash  at  Saratoga  last  week." 

"Can  I  ever  love  this  man?"  asked  Myrtle  of  herself 
as  they  parted  that  night.  "  Can  I  give  my  soul  to  one 
who  doesn't  know  the  great  composer  from  a  three-year- 
old  colt?" 

******* 

Two  weeks  later  they  were  betrothed. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  SNOW. 

Oh!  the  snow,   "  The  Beautiful  Snow!  " 
Filling  the  papers  where'er  we  go; 
Over  the  latest  news,  over  the  "ads," 
Over  the  cut  of  the  last  liver  pads; 
Solid, 

Leaded, 

Knocked  into  "  pi," 

"  Beautiful  Snow  "  evermore  meets  the  eye. 
Flying  to  kiss  the  waste-basket's  cheek, 
Lunched  on  by  goats  in  a  frolicsome  freak. 
"  Beautiful  Snow,"  coming  in  by  each  mail, 
Makes  every  editor  quake  and  turn  pale. 

Oh!  the  snow,   "  The  Beautiful  Snow!" 
How  all  the  people  that  wrote  it,  blow; 
Claiming  each  verse  as  their  own  priceless  gem- 
Nemesis  waits  for  the  last  one  of  them. 
Writing, 
Lying, 

Always  on  hand, 


28  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


As  proud  as  a  colt  in  the  rear  of  a  band; 
And  even  the  dogs,  with  a  bark  and  a  bound, 
Sniff  the  air  in  disdain  when  a  poet's  around. 
The  town  is  alive,  and  a  mighty  poor  show 
Would  be  given  the  author  of  "  Beautiful  Snow." 

How  the  wild  crowd  goes  swaying  along, 
Each  with  a  copy,  well  kept,  of  the  song; 
How  the  smart  critics  mount  four  flights  of  stairs, 
Tackling  the  editor  in  squads  and  in  pairs. 
Puffing, 

Blowing, 

Up-stairs  they  go 

To  tell  what  they  know  about  "  Beautiful  Snow." 
"  Constant  Subscriber"  is  there  from  Racine, 
"  Reader,"  "Scrutator,"  and  "Vindex,"  I  ween. 
Then  to  them  all  speaks  the  editor  bold: 
"  Don't  get  rattled;  it's  you,  and  not  me,  that's  been  sold. 

"  Once  I  was  pure  as  the  snow — but  I  dropped; 
Dropped  like  the  snowflake — until  I  was  stopped; 
Dropped,  till  the  sidewalk  and  I  coalesced; 
Dropped,  as  the  red  sun  was  sinking  to  rest. 
Cursing, 

Snorting, 

Dreading  to  rise, 

With  anguish  at  heart  and  with  tears  in  my  eyes. 
Mourning  the  fate  that  had  landed  me  there, 
Chilled  by  the  blasts  of  the  keen  winter  air. 
Merciful  God!  what  a  terrible  blow 
To  slip  and  fall  down  on  the  beautiful  snow. 

"  How  strange  it  should  be  that  this  beautiful  verse. 
'Stead  of  making  men  better  should  make  them  all  worse! 
How  strange  it  would  be  if,  in  Christmas-tide's  glow, 
We  should  find  the  real  author  of  "  Beautiful  Snow" 
Fainting, 

Freezing, 

Dying  alone; 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  29 


Would  we  give  him  a  crust,  or  a  well-polished  bone? 
Not  much!  we  would  instantly  kill  him,  and  then 
Wrap  him  up  in  the  work  of  his  misguided  pen. 
Let  us  get  out  our  shotguns  and  cheerfully  go 
On  a  hunt  for  the  man  that  wrote  '  Beautiful  Snow.'  " 


HER  TENDER  VOICE. 

"But  papa! " 

"Not  another  word,"  said  the  eighth  Duke  of  Blue 
Island  Avenue,  as  his  dinner-pail  fell  on  the  floor  with  a 
decisive  clank.  "  Your  mother  hath  erstwhile  told  me  of 
this  foolish  passion  of  yours  for  Rudolph  McCloskey, 
but  by  my —  " 

Stepping  hastily  to  an  ebony  desk  inlaid  with,  dirt,  the 
Duke  glanced  for  an  instant  into  a  large  book  that  lay 
there,  and  then  resumed  his  position  in  front  of  the/att- 
teuil  upon  which  Beryl  was  reclining. 

"By  my  halidom!"  he  continued,  "I  will  bend  this 
haughty  will  of  yours  to  my  own,  for  never  shall  it  be 
said  that  a  daughter  of  the  house  of  Perkins  allied  her- 
self with  one  far  beneath  her  in  the  social  scale.  No," 
he  said,  his  features  whitening  with  passion  as  he  saw  the 
girl,  an  insouciante  expression  on  her  pure  young  face,  re- 
garding him  with  a  half-scornful,  half  don't-care-whether- 
school-keeps-or-not  look — "  I  will  prevent  this  marriage 
of  which  you  speak  so  confidently,  though  it  cost  me  my 
fortune  and  my  life.  What  ho!  Without  there!  A  horse- 
car!  " 

A  liveried  servant  ran  at  once  to  the  front  yard  and 
signaled  the  Warder,  who  was  seated  in  his  tower  at  the 


3° 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


castle  gate.  Presently  a  horse-car  was  seen  in  the  dis- 
tance. Nearer  and  nearer  it  came,  but  still  the  Warder 
made  no  sign. 

At  last,  when  the  car  was  nearly  opposite  the  castle 
moat,  the  vigilant  servitor  threw  a  handful  of  oats  on  the 
track. 

The  car  stopped. 

******* 

When  Beryl  heard  her  father  swear  by  his  halidom 
that  he  would  prevent  her  marriage,  her  heart  sank  within 
her,  and  into  her  eyes  there  came  a  wild,  haunting,  I- 
shall-not-get-a-new-polonaise-this-spring  look,  that  told 
all  too  plainly  of  the  horrid  fears  that  beset  her  soul. 

But  amid  all  the  tumult  of  her  mind  she  did  not  for- 
get to  act.  Looking  hurriedly  at  an  almanac,  she  saw 
that  it  was  December.  The  eastern  sky  was  gray  with 
snow-clouds.  Should  her  father  miss  the  car,  Rudolph 
would  be  safe  from  his  anger  for  a  week,  perhaps  longer. 

In  an  instant,  her  mind  was  made  up.  Running  with 
frantic  speed  out  across  the  lot,  over  the  bed  where  the 
cabbages  had  nestled  so  cozily  in  the  warm  June  sun- 
shine, she  soon  reached  the  entrance  to  the  grounds  and 
was  peering  with  anxious  face  through  the  portcullis. 
The  car-horses,  a  magnificent  pair  of  bays,  were  eating  the 
oats.  Beryl  could  plainly  see  that  ere  they  had  finished 
their  meal  her  father  would  be  there.  But  she  did  not  hes- 
itate, and  in  an  instant  the  sad,  sweet  strains  of  a  childish 
melody  she  had  learned  at  school  were  floating  out  upon 
the  air,  and  mingling  with  these  echoes  was  the  crash  of 
timber  and  the  wild  jangling  of  bells.  Beryl  turned  away 
with  a  satisfied  air,  saying  softly  to  herself,  "  He  is  saved. ' 

The  car-team  had  run  away. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS,  31 


THE  MODERN  OBITUARY. 

"Want  an  obituary?" 

A  rather  short  man,  whose  naturally  cheerful  face  wore 
a  look  of  studied  grief  that  was  in  strange  contrast 
to  the  ruddy  glow  of  his  cheeks,  stood  in  the  doorway 
and  propounded  this  interrogatory  in  a  cheery  tone  of 
voice. 

"Has  another  old  citizen  passed  away?"  inquired  the 
horse  reporter.  "  I  never  knew  one  of  them  to  die,"  he 
continued,  "but  every  little  while  a  passing  away  occurs." 

"The  deceased,"  said  the  man  in  the  doorway,  "was 
certainly  an  old  resident,  and  I  may  say  that  for  purity 
of—" 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,"  interrupted 
the  horse  reporter.  "You  were  about  to  remark  that, 
'for  purity  of  purpose,  strict  fidelity  to  the  principles 
that  ever  guide  the  man  of  honor  and  probity  in  dealing 
with  his  fellow-men,  our  friend  whose  loss  we  mourn 
stood  preeminent  among  his  business  associates.'  Isn't 
that  it?" 

"That  is  certainly  the  tenor  of  what  I  had  in  mind, 
but  there  are  other  things  to  be  said  about  the  deceased. 
He  was  an  aff —  " 

"You  bet  he  was,"  said  the  horse  reporter.  "I  know 
all  about  that,  too.  '  He  was  an  affectionate  husband,  a 
kind  parent,  and  nowhere  will  his  loss  be  more  keenly 
felt  than  within  the  hallowed  spot  where  human  love  is 
ever  strongest,  human  sorrow  ever  the  most  poignant— the 
sacred  precincts  of  the  domestic  circle.'  Ain't  that  it  ?" 

"Well,  I  certainly  did  intend  to  say  something  like 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


that,"  replied  the  short  man,  "but  that  wasn't  all.     In 
the  hum — " 

"  That's  right,"  again  interrupted  the  friend  of  Maud 
S.  "  '  In  the  humbler  walks  of  life,  where  Poverty  boldly 
stalks,  where  Crime  is  found,  and  where  Disease  marks 
with  its  gaunt  finger  countless  victims  whose  lives  would 
otherwise  be  bright  and  joyous,  our  friend  who  is  now 
no  more  was  often  to  be  found,  giving  freely  of  the 
means  with  which  a  kind  Providence  had  endowed  him 
to  alleviate  the  sufferings  of  those  whom  misfortune  had 
ever  held  within  its  iron  grip.'  Doesn't  that  about  cover 
what  you  were  going  to  tell  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  short  man,  "that's  something  like  it; 
but  now  that  Death — ' 

"You're  right  again.  'But  now  that  Death  has  stilled 
with  his  icy  breath  the  heart  that  such  a  little  time  ago 
was  pulsating  with  all  the  vigor  of  healthful  manhood, 
and  laid  prone  beneath  his  silent  but  irresistible  blow 
the  rugged  form  that  had  withstood  so  bravely  the 
assaults  of  time,  there  is  nothing  left  to  us  but  a  pallid 
tenement  of  clay — frail  emblem  of  the  proud  structure 
so  instinct  with  life — teaching  to  all  of  us  with  mourn 
ful  directness  the  sad  lesson  that  in  the  midst  of  life 
we  are  in  Milwaukee — no,  in  death,  I  mean — and  that 
this  sad  event  should  impress  upon  us  all  the  necessity 
of  being  prepared  to  jump  town — no,  that  ain't  it — 
should  impress  upon  us  all  the  necessity  of  being  pre- 
pared to  meet  with  a  clear  conscience  the  summons  that 
calls  us  away  from  a  life  of  turmoil  and  trouble  to  one 
where  white-robed  Peace  stretches  forth  her  broad 
wings,  where  sorrow  and  strife  are  unknown,  and 
where  our  departed  brother  now  awaits  our  coming.' 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  33 


How  does  that  size  up  with  what  you  were  about  to  re- 
mark?" 

"Why,  that's  it  exactly,"  said  the  visitor,  a  sunny  smile 
overspreading  his  countenance.  ''You've  got  it  down 
pretty  fine,  haven't  you?" 

"  I  should  surmise  that  I  had,"  replied  the  horse  re- 
porter. "I  dropped  into  this  obituary  racket  early  in 
the  action,  and  if  anybody  can  ring  one  in  on  me  he  can 
have  the  bun." 

"I  guess  I  won't  print  this  obituary,"  said  the  visitor. 
"  The  deceased  was  only  a  New  Jersey  man,  anyhow,  and 
they  say  he  never  more  than  half  provided  for  his  family, 
and  went  to  lodge  about  five  nights  in  the  week.  Some 
said  he  removed  to  this  State  from  the  Penitentiary,  but 
I  don't  know  anything  about  that.  He's  dead,  anyhow, 
and  dead  men  can't  do  anybody  much  good,  can  they?" 

"Not  a  great  deal,"  replied  the  horse  reporter. 

"Well,  so  long,"  said  the  short  man. 

"Bon  jour,"  responded  the  horse  reporter.  "I  don't 
know  what  bon  jour  is,  but  I  heard  the  literary  editor 
say  it  the  other  day,  and  he's  far  too  fly  to  make  any 
mistakes." 


A  WOMAN'S  SPEECH. 

"  Kiss  me,  darling." 

Richard  Irwin  had  toiled  slowly  and  wearily  up  the 
two  flights  of  stairs  which  led  to  the  poor  abode,  whose 
scanty  furniture  had  grown  still  more  scanty  as  want  and 
poverty  clutched  with  iron  grip  his  whole  existence,  as 
if  they  would  throttle  even  the  faint  ray  of  hope  that 

3 


34 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


sometimes  sprang  up  in  his  heart,  and  looked  long  and 
lovingly  into  the  pale  but  beautiful  face  of  the  girl  who 
had  given  up  parents,  home  and  everything  that  had 
made  life  happy,  to  become  his  wife.  And  as  she  stood 
there,  her  soft,  white  arms  twined  lovingly  around  his 
neck,  and  her  deep,  hazel  eyes  upraised  to  his,  he  saw 
that  she  had  been  weeping,  and  around  the  wan,  droop- 
ing lips  that  in  the  happy  bygone  days  were  so  often 
raised,  pouting  merrily  the  while,  to  be  kissed  by  his  own, 
there  were  traces  of  pie. 

Richard  Irwin  shuddered  as  he  drew  the  lithe,  yield- 
ing form  still  more  closely  to  him,  and  as  her  head  nest- 
led confidingly  on  his  clavicle  his  face  was  bent  forward 
and  he  wept  bitter,  scalding  tears  of  pain  to  think  that 
his  wife,  Clyde  Stiggins,  Boston  born  and  bred — a  girl 
who  habitually  read  Emerson,  and  whose  essay  on  the 
theory  of  horizontal  cleavage  in  red  sandstone  was  only 
excelled  by  her  paper  on  the  fauna  of  the  pliocene  period 
— should  be  reduced  to  eating  pie  in  the  morning. 

And  while  he  was  wrapped  in  these  painful  reveries, 
Clyde  raised  her  head  from  his  bosom.  One  glance  told 
her  all. 

"You  are  suffering,  my  darling,"  she  said.  "Can  you 
not  tell  me,  your  wife,  of  your  sorrow? " 

"It  is  nothing,"  Richard  replied,  kissing  her  tenderly. 

"Lemon  pie,  too,"  he  murmured,  in  hoarse,  agonized 
tones,  as  his  lips  left  hers.  "My  God!  this  is  terrible." 

"  But  mastering  his  emotion  in  an  instant,  he  turned 
again  to  Clytie.  "  It  is  of  no  use,  sweetheart,"  he  said. 
"I  have  walked  the  streets  for  weeks  vainly  searching 
for  work.  Winter  is  coming  on,  and  what  is  to  become 
of  us  is  more  than  I  know." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  35 


"  It  is  always  darkest  before  the  dawn,  my  precious," 
she  murmured,  "and,  no  matter  what  betide,  I  have  you" 
— and  drawing  his  face  to  hers  she  kissed  him  in  a  wild, 
passionate,  grab-the-chair-if-you-want-to-stay-there  man- 
ner that  reminded  him  of  early  days  on  the  North  Side. 

"But  you  can't  eat  me"  he  began,  and  then  stopped 
suddenly,  saying  softly  to  himself  :  "I  don't  know.  It 
might  come  to  that.  Lemon  pie  in  the  morning" — and 
he  sank  into  a  chair. 

Just  then  a  noise,  as  of  some  one  dragging  himself 
slowly  and  wearily  up  the  stairs,  was  heard.  Presently  it 
ceased,  and  a  messenger-boy  kicked  open  the  door,  and 
walking  to  where  Richard  Irwin  sat,  handed  him  a  tele- 
gram. He  tore  open  the  envelope  with  trembling  hands 
and. read  the  message,  the  boy  looking  over  his  shoulder 
to  see  that  everything  was  all  right. 

"We  are  saved,  Clytie,"  he  said  in  low,  broken  tones. 
"Your  father  is  dead,  and  all  his  mackerel  fishery  is 
yours." 

"Yes,"  murmured  the  girl,  kneeling  beside  the  chair 
on  which  her  husband  sat.  "We  are  saved,  Richard 
— saved  by  a  canthopterygian  fish  of  the  scomberoid 
family.  Its  body  is  fusiform,  its  first  dorsal  fin  continu- 
ous, and  its  branchiostegal  rays  are  seven  in  number" — 
and  then,  looking  up  suddenly,  she  saw  that  the  man  she 
loved  so  well,  and  for  whom  she  would  have  sacrificed 
her  life,  was  lying  cold  and  pulseless  across  the  chair. 

She  had  talked  him  to  death. 


36  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


LOVE'S  STRATAGEM. 

"Pass  the  cake." 

These  words,  spoken  in  imperious  tones  by  Rosalind 
McGuire,  floated  diagonally  across  the  parlor  to  where 
Pansy  Perkins  was  seated  on  a  fauteuil  conversing  with 
George  W.  Simpson.  Pansy  was  looking  even  lovelier 
than  usual,  the  gaslight,  softened  and  made  less  garish  by 
the  tinted  shades  through  which  it  came,  bringing  out  in 
all  its  beauty  the  peachy  complexion  for  which  the 
Perkinses  of  Perkinsville  had  long  been  noted. 

"  Were  you  ever  in  Marietta,  Ohio? "  she  asked,  bend- 
ing her  face  as  she  spoke  so  close  to  that  of  George  that 
a  little  vagrant  tress  of  her  sunny  hair  swept  across  his 
forehead,  making  him  feel  as  if  he  had  suddenly  taken 
hold  of  the  handles  of  an  electrical  machine. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  I  never  was  in  Marietta,  but  I  have 
an  aunt  who  used  to  live  in  Cleveland." 

"  How  strange,"  said'Pansy.  "My  father  once  knew 
a  man  who  had  been  in  Cleveland." 

And  so  they  chatted  on,  unmindful  of  the  fact  that 
just  across  the  room  there  sat  a  woman  beautiful,  but 
with  cold  feet,  whose  eyes  were  never  taken  from  them, 
and  in  whose  heart  the  fires  of  jealousy  were  raging  in  all 
their  lurid  fierceness.  Rosalind  McGuire  loved  George 
W.  Simpson  with  all  the  passionate  fervor  of  a  high-born 
woman  whose  heart,  attacked  in  vain  by  countless  suitors, 
suddenly  pours  out  unbidden  all  the  hidden  treasures  of 
its  love.  Such  a  love  is  terrible  in  its  intensity,  and  only 
those  who  have  seen  a  three-base  hit  made  in  the  ninth 
inning  can  realize  the  agony  to  which  a  woman,  loving 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  37 


thus,  is  subjected  when  she  sees  the  object  of  her  passion 
bending  tenderly  over  another  and  whispering  words 
that  can  never  be  recalled.  The  sight  of  George  W. 
Simpson  making  love  to  a  girl  who  didn't  have  an  invisi- 
ble net  to  her  name  was  more  than  Rosalind  could  bear, 
and  she  went  into  the  supper  room. 

"  Put  some  oysters  near  that  hole  in  the  wall,"  she  said 
to  a  waiter,  pointing  with  her  jeweled  hand  to  \hzportiere 
through  which  she  has  just  passed.  The  man  did  as  he 
was  told. 

In  a  moment  George  and  Pansy  entered  the  room. 

"Would  you  like  some  oysters?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Pansy.  "I  think  they  are  just 
lovely." 

George  placed  before  her  a  platter  of  Sevres  ware  on 
which  the  mollusks  where  heaped,  and  as  the  first  one 
disappeared  with  a  dull  thud  Rosalind  smiled  a  cold, 
Boston  smile,  and  felt  that  her  hour  of  triumph  was  at 
hand. 

When  the  oysters  were  gone,  Pansy  looked  up  with  a 
glad  smile. 

"You  are  very  kind,  Mr.  Simpson,"  she  said,  "and  I 
shall  not  soon  forget  this  night." 

"  But  the  happy  look  had  faded  from  the  man's  face, 
and  his  riant  mouth  was  quivering  with  pain.  "  My 
heart  is  broken,"  he  said  softly  to  himself  as  he  reached 
for  a  biscuit,  "but  it  is  better  so  than  after  I  had  told  my 
love.  If  she  eats  that  way  at  a  party,  what  kind  of  a 
record  would  she  get  at  home!  " 

Ah!  what  indeed? 


38  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


A  MODERN  PARABLE. 

A  certain  man  went  down  from  Chicago  to  Ohio,  taking 
with  him  a  return  ticket,  lest  he  fall  against  a  Cincinnati 
wheat  speculator  and  be  robbed  of  that  wherewith  he 
would  fain  buy  flour  and  gum  shoes  for  his  family,  in  the 
season  of  cold  which  cometh  on  those  who  live  in  Chi- 
cago from  the  tenth  to  the  fourth  month,  and  find  him- 
self amid  sinners  and  publicans,  whose  mercy  is 
strained,  even  so  fine  that  it  would  bother  you  some  to 
discover  it. 

And  when  he  had  reached  Cincinnati  he  went  to  an 
inn,  and  gave  to  the  landlord  thereof  three  pieces  of  silver, 
saying,  "No  monkey  business  with  me,  Charlie;  lam 
from  Bitter  Creek."  And  he  who  kept  the  inn  marveled 
greatly,  and  said  unto  himself:  "These  be  strange  men 
that  come  from  Chicago;  never  are  they  to  be  bilked  by 
a  hotel  bill,  and  he  who  endeavoreth  to  outwit  them  is 
invariably  headed  off."  But,  nevertheless,  he  bethought 
himself  of  a  Poker  Game  which  was  that  night  in  the  inn, 
and  laughed  to  himself  with  exceeding  great  joy.  Then 
arose  the  landlord  and  went  unto  the  place  called  Bar, 
where  of  a  certainty  he  should  find  the  man  from  Chi- 
cago, and,  approaching  him,  said: 

"  There  be  in  this  inn,  even  in  the  third  story  thereof, 
a  small  party  of  prominent  citizens  which  do  play  at  the 
game  called  Draw-Poker.  Perchance  thou  might,  after 
much  travail,  secure  a  seat  among  them." 

And  when  the  host  of  the  inn  had  spake  these  words 
a  witching  smile  did  play  around  the  lips  of  the  Chicago 
man,  and  he  answered,  saying:  "  I  am  yet  young,  and  of 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  39 


a  certainty  far  from  mine  home  and  family,  and  fearful 
lest  I  fall  among  thieves." 

But  the  landlord  rebuked  him,  saying:  "In  this  party 
whereof  I  speak  are  only  Business  Men,  two  being 
Colonels  and  one  a  Judge.  Would  you  not  think  it  an 
honor  to  play  with  these?"  And  the  Chicago  man  was 
overcome,  and  said  softly:  "I  should  twitter,"  which 
being  interpreted,  means  that  he  should  blush  to  giggle. 

So  they  went  up  in  that  which  is  called  Elevator  until 
three  stories  were  below  them,  and  the  landlord  knocked 
softly  on  the  door  of  a  room  in  which  a  light  gleamed 
brightly. 

And  the  door  opened. 

And  when  the  Chicago  man  had  seated  himself  and 
bought  of  chips  an  hundred  shekels'  worth,  he  spake  not, 
but  drank  heartily.  And  it  came  to  pass  that  after  many 
deals  one  of  the  Colonels  did  bet  seven  shekels;  where- 
upon bet  also  the  Chicago  man  a  like  amount,  and  did 
vanquish  the  Colonel,  who  had  that  which  is  called  two 
pair.  And  when  this  had  occurred  thrice,  the  Colonel 
said  unto  the  Judge:  "He  is  playing  them  close  to  his 
stomach." 

And  it  was  so. 

But  presently  there  came  to  the  Colonel  a  hand  of  ex- 
ceeding beauty  and  strength,  being  four  aces.  And  he 
who  held  them  was  filled  with  glee  and  knew  not  fear, 
placing  in  the  centre  of  the  table  great  quantities  of 
shekels.  And  when  it  came  to  that  which  is  called  the 
draw,  the  Chicago  man  took  not  of  the  cards,  saying  he 
was  content.  But  the  Colonel  drew  one  with  great 
boasting,  telling,  with  intent  to  deceive  the  others,  of 
how  he  would  bet,  if  perchance  he  made  a  full,  which  is 


4o  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


a  hand  of  great  strength,  and  capable  of  overcoming 
threes,  or  even  a  flush,  but  which  can  not  prevail  against 
fours.  And  having  said  these  words,  he  wagered  heav- 
ily of  silver  and  gold,  all  of  which  the  Chicago  man  did 
cover,  and  even  betted  more,  whereupon  put  the  Colonel 
also  his  watch  and  diamond  on  the  table,  and  wagered 
them  freely.  And  when  all  had  been  betted,  the  Chicago 
man  said,  "  Straight  flush,"  even  as  he  spoke  gathering 
unto  himself  all  the  treasures  which  the  table  held.  And 
when  he  had  placed  in  his  pocket  all  the  shekels,  and  in 
his  shirt-front  the  diamond,  and  had  adorned  himself 
with  the  watch,  he  became  suddenly  sleepy  and  said:  "I 
am  too  full  to  play  well  to-night.  I  will  go  to  my  bed." 

And  he  went. 

But  those  who  were  left  did  beat  their  breasts  and  cry 
out,  saying:  "  How  are  we  knocked  around  and  par- 
alyzed by  this  stranger  who  cometh  from  Chicago  and 
dresseth  not  in  fine  raiment,  but  who  has  of  money  great 
store  and  will  wager  it  lavishly  on  a  hand  which  can  not 
be  overcome.  It  were  better  we  had  remained  this  night 
with  our  wives  and  children.  To-morrow  night,  how- 
ever, we  will  again  play  with  him  at  the  game  called 
Poker,  and  compass  him  about  with  a  cold  deck,  so  that 
he  shall  be  overthrown  and  cast  down  in  spirit." 

But  they  wist  not  what  they  said. 

For  in  the  morning  the  stranger  departed  from  out 
their  gates  and  came  back  to  his  wife,  who  fell  upon  his 
neck  and  kissed  him.  And  he  did  kiss  her  on  the  cheek, 
saying;  "Mary,  you  can  order  that  sealskin." 

And  she  made  answer  and  said:  " Charlie,  you're  a 
darling;  kiss  me  again.  " 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  41 


THE  PERILS  OF  ORATORY. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Reginald?" 

The  supper  in  connection  with  the/>/<f  champetre  given 
by  Stuyvesant  McGuire  in  honor  of  the  igth  birthday  of 
his  only  child,  was  over,  and  the  spacious  parlors  were 
filled  with  the  younger  portion  of  the  assemblage,  by 
whom  they  had  quickly  been  devoted  to  the  worship  of 
Terpsichore.  Reginald  Mulcahey  and  Aphrodite  Mc- 
Guire had  been  gliding  through  the  soft,  sensuous  meas- 
ures of  a  Strauss  waltz,  and  as  the  music  ceased  they  had 
strolled  into  the  dimly-lighted  conservatory,  where,  as 
they  sat  with  clasped  hands,  her  pure,  sweet  face  looking 
lovingly  into  his,  the  question  with  which  our  story  opens 
had  been  asked. 

"Do  I  love  you,  my  little  one?"  responded  Reginald, 
as  he  imprinted  a  large  Eighteenth  Ward  kiss  on  the 
ruby-red  lips  that  overhung  the  drooping,  sensitive 
mouth.  "  Your  heart,  that  unerring  and  ever  vigilant 
monitor  of  the  soul,  must  tell  you  in  words  far  plainer 
than  any  utterance  of  mine,  that  without  the  inspiration 
of  your  love  my  life  would  be  as  dreary  and  aimless  as 
the  editorials  in  a  Cleveland  paper,  and  the  days  drift 
wearily  by  without  one  gleam  of  light  to  brighten  the 
dreary  horizon  of  my  existence.  You  surely  can  not  but 
know,  Aphrodite,  that  before  I  knew  you  I  was  a  wild, 
reckless  man,  and  that  when  your  love  burst  upon  my 
sin-seared  soul  a  sweet  joy  stole  over  my  being — a  sense 
of  calm,  peaceful  rest,  such  as  the  storm-tossed  mariner 
feels  when  the  glad  sunlight  comes  in  golden  glory 
through  a  rift  in  the  leaden  clouds  that  have  so  long 


42  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


o'erspread  the  horizon  and  looked  upon  the  wind-swept 
sea  in  sullen  glee,  or  comes  to  the  belated  traveler  when 
the  soft,  mellow  light  of  the  unexpectedly-open  saloon 
bursts  upon  his  enraptured  vision.  My  love  for  you  and 
the  knowledge  that  it  is  returned  has  given  me  an  aim  in 
life — an  aim,  I  may  say,  with  a  large  A.  With  your 
bright  face  as  a  beacon  light,  my  course  shall  be  as 
unswerving  as  that  of  the  majestic  and  eternal  sun, 
whose  fervid  rays  are  even  now  kissing  the  limpid  waters 
of  the  Pacific." 

"  Say  no  more,"  interrupted  Aphrodite.  "  I  believe 
you  fully." 

An  hour  later  Reginald  has  just  finished  a  polka  with 
Juliet  Mahaffy,  and  is  standing  near  the  conservatory 
discussing  with  her  the  question  of  whether  a  blue  dog 
or  a  red  tree  with  a  chrome-yellow  cow  standing  beneath 
it  is  the  most  suitable  to  be  painted  on  a  tea-cup,  when 
the  sound  of  voices  reaches  his  ear.  Glancing  carelessly 
into  the  conservatory  he  sees  Adelbert  Quirk  leaning  over 
Aphrodite  McGuire  as  she  stands  near  the  bay  window, 
carelessly  plucking  to  pieces  a  blush  rose  which  she  holds 
in  her  left  hand.  Adelbert  is  speaking  very  earnestly, 
and  as  Reginald  listens  he  hears  him  say: 

"Your  heart,  that  unerring  and  ever-vigilant  monitor 
of  the  soul,  must  tell  you  in  words  far  plainer  than  any 
utterance  of  mine,  that  without  the  inspiration  of  your 
love  my  life  would  be  as  dreary  and  aimless  as  the  edi- 
torials in  a  Cleveland  paper,  and  the  day  drift  wearily  by 
without  one  gleam  of  light  to  brighten  the  dreary  horizon 
of  my  existence.  You  surely  can  not  but — " 

"Curses  on  the  reporter!"  said  Reginald,  in  hoarse, 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  43 


passionate  tones.  "  He  has  sold  us  both  the  same  speech  " 
— and  with  a  face  convulsed  with  passion  he  passed  rap- 
idly into  the  supper  room  and  again  tackled  the  mince 
pie. 


HUMOR  TO  ORDER. 

It  was  a  jolly  editor 

Who  said  unto  the  man 
That  writes  the  live-stock  items: 

"  Make  an  effort  if  you  can 
Your  matter  to  enliven, 

Like  a  true  American. 
Arork  up  a  funny  paragraph 

About  the  butting  goat; 
Say  that  his  fav'rit  luncheon 

Is  a  winter  overcoat. 
No  matter  what  the  subject  is, 

Adorn  it  with  a  joke; 
Right  in  your  line  would  be  that  of 

The  pig  within  a  poke. " 

Forth  went  the  faithful  live-stock  man, 
But  not  with  joy  and  hope; 

He  knew  that  with  the  price  of  hog 
And  cattle  he  could  cope, 

But,  having  reached  that  point,  beheld 
The  limits  of  his  rope. 

However,  he  came  back  when  Xight 
Her  sable  pall  had  spread 

O'er  all  the  earth,  and  to  the  wait- 
Ing  editor  he  said: 

I've  followed  your  instructions,  and 
Of  items  have  a  score — 


44  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


All  funny,  and  the  first  one  will 
Most  surely  make  you  roar." 

The  editor  sat  quickly  down, 

Nor  to  his  vassal  spoke. 
The  night  was  wild,  one  almost  heard 

The  raven's  mournful  croak — 
The  editor  was  ready  for 

A  very  able  joke. 
As  Sitting-Bull,"  the  joke  began, 

"  Was  once  upon  a  raid, 
He  came  upon  some  cattle,  and 

To  Scar-Face-Charley  said: 
'  Please  hold  my  pony,  while  your  Chief 

A  pearly  tear  doth  shed, 
Nor  interrupt  my  grief,  or  I 

Will  on  you  put  a  head.' 

1  For  full  an  hour  the  warrior  bold 

Indulged  in  saline  wo; 
The  other  scalpers  stood  around 

In  serried  rank  and  row. 
1  Now  silent  be,'  said  Scar-Faced-Charles, 

'  Give  the  old  man  a  show.' 
But  finally  up  spoke  the  chief: 

•  My  comrades  brave,'  said  he, 
'  You  know  that  several  moons  ago 

My  daughter,  Laughing-Flea, 
Was  buried  'neath  the  branches  of 

Yon  sturdy  old  oak  tree; 
I  sorrow  ever  for  my  child, 
Nor  comforted  can  be. 

'  When  I  came  up  this  hill  to-day 

And  saw  the  oak  that  rears 
Its  haughty  front  that's  braved  the  blast 
For  full  a  hundred  years, 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  45 


I  noticed  that  some  cattle  were 

At  grass  in  yonder  dell. 
To  tell  the  truth,  my  faithful  men, 

Your  leader  felt  like  h — 1. 
I  know  I  wept  like  any  child, 

But  it  was  not  for  grief — 
A  joke  came  o'er  my  senses,  and 

My  solemn  thoughts  were  brief. 
Just  wait,  my  boys,  and  hear  it  from 

Old  Sitting-Bull,  your  Chief. 

'  Above  my  pretty  daughter's  grave 

The  grass  grows  very  green — 
Just  notice  that,  and  then  the  force 

Of  this  joke  will  be  seen. 
I  saw  the  maiden's  final  home, 

The  cattle  grazing  near 
The  grassy  grave,  the  cattle — don't 

You  tumble? — hence  these  steers! 
The  saying  is  an  ancient  one, 

/fine  illce  lachrimce; 
That's  Latin,  but  you  Injuns 

Haven't  brains  enough  to  see 
The  very  able  joke  that  I 

Have  builded  up  for  thee.'  " 
***** 

"  Depart  in  peace,"  the  editor 

Remarked  unto  the  man 
That  did  the  live-stock  markets; 

"In  the  coming  days  you  can 
Get  up  the  Lakeside  Musings — 

Here's  your  scissors  and  a  pot 
With  which  to  cut  and  paste  the  jokes 

From  other  papers  got." 


46  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


BLANKS   BETWEEN  THE  STARS. 

"Oh  my!     Is  this  the  place? " 

A  good-looking  young  lady  stood  in  the  door  of 
the  editorial  room  and  looked  carefully  around  the 
apartment. 

"I  want  to  see  an  editor,"  she  continued — "the  one 
that  writes  those  lovely  articles  in  the  Sunday  papers 
about  'Satin  de  Lyon  will  be  much  worn  this  fall,'  and 
'Cape  May  fashionables  do  not  consider  striped  bathing- 
suits  fashionable,'  and  all  those  other  sweet  editorials 
about  people  who  are  going  away  for  the  summer,  and 
everything  like  that,  you  know." 

"  I  guess  you  are  looking  for  the  society  editor,"  said 
the  horse  reporter.  "He  is  out  just  now,  but  if  you 
want  to  know  when  Goldsmith  Maid  trotted  in  2:16^  or 
what  the  two-mile  record  was  in  1872,  I  could  tell  you 
all  about  it.  What  was  it  you  wanted  to  see  the  society 
editor  about? " 

"Well,"  said  the  young  lady,  "I  really  hate  to  tell  you 
about  this  matter,  but  mamma  said  the  best  way  would 
be  to  go  right  to  a  newspaper  and  see  what  I  had  better 
do,  because  ever  since  papa  died  we  haven't  had  any 
man  to  put  us  right  about  such  things,  and  mamma 
thinks  just  as  I  do,  that  in  a  case  like  this  a  man  would 
be  ever  so  much  more  apt  to  decide  right  on  what  was 
best  to  do,  because  women,  you  know,  always  let  their 
feelings  run  away  with  their  judgment,  and  frequently 
make  mistakes  in  matters  that  perhaps  affect  their  whole 
future  existence.  I  told  mamma  that  it  seemed  awfully 
queer  to  me  to  talk  to  a  strange  man  about  any  such 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  47 


thing  as  this,  but  she  said  editors  were  persons  of  great 
experience,  and  since  dear  papa  was  dead  it  would 
be  a  good  deal  better  to  find  out  what  some  man 
of  experience  thought  about  it  before  I  went  any 
further." 

"Were  you  able  to  talk  when  papa  hit  the  last  hurdle?" 
inquired  the  horse  reporter. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  was  nearly  nine  when  he  died." 

"Your  father  must  have  left  a  large  property?" 

"Well,  he  did,"  replied  the  girl,  "but  what  made  you 
think  so?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  replied  St.  Julien's  friend,  "only  I 
have  noticed  that  lucky  men  are  generally  rich." 

"  Well,  of  course  I  don't  know  anything  about  that," 
said  the  young  lady,  "but  anyhow  mamma  thought  I  had 
better  see  some  of  you  gentlemen  about  my  affair.  I  am 
in  love,  you  know,  with  a  young  man,  and  we  are  corres- 
ponding right  along,  but  he  doesn't  seem  to  progress 
any  about  what  I  am  thinking  about,  you  know,  and 
mamma  says  that  probably  my  letters  aren't  quite  tender 
enough,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  an  editor  ought  to 
know  about  anything  like  that." 

"Did  you  ever  try  the  blanks-between-the-stars 
racket?"  asked  the  horse  reporter. 

"The  what?" 

"  The  blanks-between-the-stars  racket.  That's  a  daisy, 
and  unless  this  young  fellow  is  pretty  fly  the  chances  are 
that  you  will  land  him  on  the  first  throw.  I  have  seen 
some  pretty  wise  young  men  go  against  that  deadfall  and 
get  caught — not  dry-goods  clerks  or  any  such  tissue- 
paper  ducks  as  those,  you  know,  but  boys  that  had  been 
out  after  9  o'clock  for  several  consecutive  nights,  and 


48  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


were  supposed  to  be  right  in  the  front  end  of  the  pro- 
cession all  the  time." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  the 
young  lady,  "but  I  will  try  this — 

"Racket,"  suggested  the  reporter. 

"Racket,"  continued  the  young  lady,  "if  you  will  tell 
me  about  it." 

"Well,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "the  next  time  you 
write  to  Ethelbert,  or  whatever  his  name  is,  you  just  give 
it  to  him  strong  about  the  deathless  passion  that  your 
heart  holds  for  him — a  heart  that  has  never  before  known 
what  it  was  to  be  tortured  by  doubts  and  fears  that  the 
one  on  whom  the  priceless  treasure  of  its  love  was  set 
might  prove  unfaithful  to  that  love,  unworthy  of  the 
trusting  heart  which  gave  it  birth.  This  will  wake  him 
up  pretty  well,  and  then  is  the  time  to  find  out  where  he 
lives.  Say  that  without  his  love  life  would  be  an  arid  waste 
upon  whose  burning  sands  lay  the  whited  skeletons  of 
Love  and  Hope.  That  the  days  on  which  no  letter  comes 
from  him  are  as  the  blanks  between  the  stars — seeming 
all  the  more  dark  and  cheerless  because  of  the  brightness 
on  either  side." 

"Do  you  think  that  would  have  the  desired  result?" 
asked  the  girl. 

"If  it  doesn't,  replied  the  horse  reporter,  you  are  lucky 
to  lose  him." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  49 


A  PARISIAN  ROMANCE. 

Camilla  was  a  scrub-girl  in  a  large  hotel  in  Paris.  She 
loved  Pierre,  a  young  Gascon  who  blacked  the  boots  of 
the  guests.  Pierre  did  not  know  this.  Often  she  stood 
at  the  head  of  the  back  stairs  and  watched  him  scraping 
the  mud  from  the  shoes  and  humming  softly  to  himself 
the  song  that  he  had  learned  when  a  boy.  There  was  no 
hydrant  in  the  little  hallway  where  Pierre  had  his  office, 
and  often  when  the  rush  of  travelers  was  great  Pierre 
would  have  hard  work  to  furnish  enough  saliva  to  prop- 
erly moisten  the  blacking.  At  these  times,  when  he  had 
gone  to  borrow  a  chew  of  tobacco  from  Fauche"ry,  the 
night  clerk,  Camille  would  run  quickly  down  the  stairs 
and  spit  in  the  blacking-box.  "It  will  save  Pierre's 
lungs,"  she  would  say  to  herself,  "  and  perhaps  some  day 
he  will  know  of  my  love."  Then  she  would  go  back  to 
her  scrubbing  again.  Always  she  thought  of  Pierre. 
One  day  she  was  at  work  in  the  fourth  story  of  the 
hotel,  cleaning  a  window-sill.  Unconsciously  she  kept 
scrubbing  away  at  the  same  place.  Lisette,  the  boss 
chambermaid,  came  along.  She  did  not  like  Camille, 
because  the  latter  had  once  charged  her  with  wearing 
striped  stockings  after  they  had  gone  out  of  fashion. 

"  What  are  you  doing? "  said  Lisette. 

"  I  am  scrubbing,"  answered  Camille. 

"  I  should  remark,"  said  Lisette,  with  a  brutal  laugh. 
"See,  you  have  worn  the  paint  off  that  window-sill. 
What  will  the  landlady  say  when  I  tell  her  of  this?" 
Then  she  passed  on. 

A   big  tear  slowly  rolled  down  Camille's  nose.     "I 

4 


5° 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


shall  nave  to  pay  for  painting  that  window,"  she  said 
sadly,  "and  it  will  take  half  my  dot.  Pierre  is  too 
proud  to  marry  a  penniless  girl.  O  how  I  suffer." 

She  was  sadly  silent  all  day,  and  seemed  in  a  bewild- 
ered state,  even  declining  to  look  at  a  fashion  magazine 
which  Fifine,  a  second-floor  chambermaid  who  loved  Ca- 
mille  dearly,  had  found  in  one  of  the  boarders'  rooms. 

The  next  morning  Camille  was  at  the  head  of  the  back 
stairs,  looking  at  Pierre  as  he  cleaned  the  boots.  Pres- 
ently Lisette  came  into  the  hallway  where  he  was  seated, 
and  began  talking  to  him.  Camille  leaned  eagerly  over 
the  balusters  to  catch  their  words,  but  could  hear  nothing 
but  a  confused  murmur.  Presently  Pierre  became  dem- 
onstrative, and  attempted  to  kiss  Lisette.  She  struggled 
coyly  for  a  little  while,  but  at  last  became  passive.  Just 
as  his  lips  were  about  to  touch  hers,  something  came 
swiftly  through  the  air  and  felled  them  to  the  floor. 

Camille  had  fallen  over  the  balusters. 


ASSISTING  THE  DESERVING. 

"Could  you  find  room  for  a  Christmas  story?" 
The  editor,  a  man  of  kindly  heart,  looked  quickly  up 
from  the  work  at  which  he  was  engaged,  and  saw  by  his 
side  a  girl  of  perhaps  nineteen,  perhaps  thirty.  It  was  she 
who  had  asked  the  question.  It  was  not  exactly  a  pretty 
face  that  looked  so  appealingly  into  that  of  the  gruff, 
overworked  editor,  but  there  was  in  it  such  a  look  of 
sweet  womanly  purity,  such  a  pleadingly-wistful  expres- 
sion in  the  soft  gray  eyes,  that  the  editor  felt  his  heart  go 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  51 


out  in  pity  toward  the  little  miss  whose  cheeKS  the  Ice 
King  had  kissed  into  rosy  bloom. 

"  So  you  have  written  a  Christmas  story,  my  lass,"  he 
said  in  a  cheery  voice,  "  and  would  like  to  have  it  appear 
in  the  paper  to-morrow? " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  girl,  in  a  voice  whose  rippling 
sweetness  only  served  to  link  more  strongly  together  the 
chains  that  were  fast  encircling  the  editor's  heart.  "  Papa 
has  been  very  sick  for  nearly  three  months  now,  and  we  are 
so  poor,  and  I  thought  that  perhaps  if  I  wrote  a  story  you 
might  be  good  enough  to  pay  me  something  for  it — not 
much,  but  enough  to  buy  some  trinkets  for  the  children, 
little  Ethel  and  Reginald,  so  that  they  would  not  think 
Santa  Clans  had  deserted  them  entirely.  If  you  knew 
how  hard  I  have  tried  to  get  employment,  and  how 
I  have  cried  myself  to  sleep  many  and  many  a  night  be- 
cause I  seemed  so  helpless,  so  utterly  alone  in  this  great 
world,  I  am  sure  you  would  not  think  me  bold  in  coming 
here  as  I  do." 

There  was  a  suspicious  moisture  in  the  editor's  eyes 
when  the  little  maiden  had  finished  her  story,  and  he  sat  for 
an  instant  in  silence,  thinking  how  his  nine-year-old  Tom, 
and  fair-haired  Grace,  with  the  roguish  ways,  and  sweet 
little  Myrtle,  who  put  her  soft,  white  arms  around  his 
neck  so  lovingly  every  evening,  were  waiting  at  home  for 
his  coming,  and  of  how  their  merry  shouts  would  ring 
through  the  house  when  the  morrow  came  and  each  tiny 
stocking  was  found  filled  with  candies  and  toys.  And 
then  he  thought  of  the  beautiful  young  wife,  the  love  of 
his  early  manhood,  whom  two  years  before  he  had  laid 
away  in  the  cold,  cruel  grave  that  claimed  her  for  its 
own.  And  further  still,  his  thoughts  went  back  until  they 


52  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


came  to  a  time  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  and  mother — 
his  own  loved  mother,  who  used  to  wear  out  a  trunk  strap 
on  him  every  winter — was  alive,  and  how  she  would  kiss 
him  good-night,  tenderly,  and  then  heartlessly  drag  him  out 
of  bed  at  9  or  TO  o'clock  in  the  morning  on  the  feeble  pre- 
text that  the  girl  wanted  to  clear  up  the  room.  His  blue- 
eyed  sister  was  alive  then — "  Caramel  Carrie,"  they  used 
to  call  her — and  it  came  back  to  him  this  winter's  day  as 
he  sat  there  in  his  office,  how  madly  she  loved  him,  and 
was  so  solicitous  for  his  health  that  she  would  get  mother  to 
put  him  to  bed  early  on  the  nights  her  beau  was  coming. 
He  might  have  gone  on  for  hours  with  these  reveries,  had 
not  the  pleading  voice  of  the  girl  aroused  him  with  the 
words:  "And  can  you  make  room  for  my  story?" 

The  editor  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant.  "  Make  room 
for  it,  my  dear?  Why,  of  course  I  can" — and  taking  three 
or  four  communications  on  the  Guiteau  trial  out  of  the 
waste-basket,  he  placed  the  girl's  Christmas  story  in  the 
hole  thus  produced.  "  You  have  made  a  better  man  of 
me,"  he  said  to  the  girl,  "and  I  am  going  to  let  you  ride 
down  in  the  elevator." 


ENTERING  JOURNALISM. 

"Can  I  come  in?" 

A  young  man  whose  clothes  were  suspiciously  new, 
and  upon  whose  face  there  was  a  complacent,  self-satis- 
fied expression,  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  editorial 
rooms  and  propounded  the  above  interrogatory  in  a  very 
loud  and  declamatory  tone  of  voice. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  53 


"  I  suppose  you  can,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "  unless 
you  are  afflicted  with  some  constitutional  malady  which 
prevents  your  putting  one  foot  in  front  of  the  other,  or 
have  got  a  pair  of  hobbles  on.  There  have  some  daisy 
fellows  come  up  here  lately,  but  you  are  the  first  one  that 
wanted  to  know  whether  he  could  go  through  an  open 
door." 

"  I  didn't  mean  exactly  that,"  continued  the  young 
man.  "What  I  wanted  to  know,  was,  if  I  could  come 
into  the  room  for  a  few  minutes." 

"Certainly,  you  can;  only  don't  say  anything  to  the 
effect  that  we  ought  to  have  a  pleasant  summer  after  such 
a  rainy  spring,  or  you  may  find  yourself  a  pallid  corpse  in 
the  donjon  keep  beneath  the  moated  turrets  of  the  castle. 
If  you  are  looking  for  the  Hawkinsville  Clarion  or  the 
Gnindy  County  Palladium,  you  will  find  them  in  that  pile 
of  papers  over  in  the  corner.  If  you  are  aweary,  and 
fain  would  woo  the  drowsy  god,  ask  the  man  in  the  next 
room  for  the  Boston  Advertiser.  A  Boston  paper  will 
make  insomnia  flee  away  as  the  black  wraiths  of  despair 
and  desolation  vanish  before  the  golden  rays  of  hope. 
Don't  mistake  yon  haggard  paste-pot  for  a  cup-custard, 
because  in  its  contents  there  is  a  generous  admixture  of 
deceased  cockroaches  that  but  a  few  short  days  agone 
were  members  of  happy  family  circles — now,  alas!  sun- 
dered by  the  cruel  hand  of  a  darksome  and  unrelenting 
fate." 

"  I  don't  want  to  read  any  exchanges,"  said  the  young 
man.  "  The  object  of  my  visit  was  to  see  the  principal 
editor — the  one  who  makes  engagements  with  jour- 
nalists." 

"The  what?" 


54  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"The  editor  who  makes  engagements  with  journalists." 

"  Oh,  you  mean  the  man  that  hires  the  hands.  He's  in 
the  other  room.  Do  you  want  a  job?" 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man  in  a  rather  haughty  man- 
ner, "  I  have  some  thoughts  of  entering  the  journalistic 
profession." 

"  You  mean  that  you  want  to  hire  out  as  a  deck-hand 
on  a  newspaper,  don't  you?" 

"  Perhaps  that  is  your  way  of  expressing  it,  sir,"  said 
the  young  man,  "but  our  professor  of  rhetoric  always 
told  us  that — " 

"Oh,  you're  a  college  graduate,  are  you?"  said  the 
horse  reporter.  "  I  thought  you  had  a  kind  of  I-shall- 
now-go-forth-and-take-charge-of-affairs  air  about  you.  I 
suppose  you  graduated  last  week?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  "and  I  may  say  that  my 
oration —  " 

"  I  know  all  about  it,"  interrupted  the  horse  reporter. 
"You  spoke  a  piece  about  'Life's  Mission,'  or  'Our 
Country's  Future,'  or  something  like  that,  and  when  you 
had  finished  it  the  young  lady  in  the  percale  dress,  whom 
you  have  been  taking  to  the  weekly  meetings  of  the  Pla- 
tonian  Literary  Society  for  the  last  two  years,  sent  a  big 
bouquet  up  to  the  platform  for  you,  with  a  little  piece  of 
rose-tinted  note-paper  in  the  centre  of  it,  with  '  From  one 
who  admires  Genius '  written  on  it.  And  then  a  lot  of 
Teutonic  musicians  blew  themselves  black  in  the  face 
playing  the  Star  Spangled  Banner.  And  in  the  evening 
you  went  to  the  President's  reception  with  the  female  ad- 
mirer of  Genius,  and  on  the  way  home  you  told  her  that, 
now  you  were  about  to  enter  upon  a  new  sphere  of  ac- 
tion, to  go  forth  and  to  battle  with  the  world,  and  carve 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  55 


for  yourself  a  niche  high  in  the  temple  of  fame,  you  felt 
that  you  must  tell  her  how  your  whole  existence  was 
wrapped  up  in  a  pure,  holy  love  for  her — a  love  that 
would  never  falter  or  fade  as  long  as  life  remained.  And 
then  she  laid  her  head  trustfully  on  your  manly  breast, 
and  sd^d  that  she  would  not  try  to  conceal  from  you  the 
fact,  ever  present  in  her  heart,  that  you  were  the  one 
man  in  the  wide,  wide  world  upon  whom  she  could  freely 
bestow  that  most  precious  of  all  gifts — the  tender,  true 
and  all-absorbing  love  of  a  pure  woman.  But  in  about 
five  years,  things  will  look  different.  There  are  now 
more  young  men  who  started  out  to  carve  a  niche  high  in 
the  temple  of  fame  chasing  large  red  steers  over  the  arid 
plains  of  Texas,  or  delivering  mackerel  to  the  first  fam- 
ilies, than  you  can  shake  a  stick  at." 

"But  surely,  sir,  you  do  not  mean  to  insinuate  that  a 
college  education  is  in  any  way  a  hindrance  to  the  ac- 
complishment of  those  ends  which  it  should  ever  be  the 
aim  of  all  who  have  the  welfare  of  their  country  at  heart 
to  bring  about?" 

"That's  just  the  trouble,"  said  the  horse  reporter. 
"  You  college  graduates  always  start  out  with  the  idea 
that  it  is  your  mission  to  manipulate  the  entire  universe, 
when,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  most  of  you  wouldn't  do  to 
leave  in  charge  of  one  small  back-yard.  Because  a 
young  man  knows  all  about  the  square  of  the  hypoth- 
enuse,  and  can  reel  off  chunks  of  Roman  history,  it  does 
not  necessarily  follow  that  there  is  a  wild  competition 
among  business  men  for  his  valuable  services.  If  the 
employers  of  America  never  go  lame  until  their  legs  give 
out  from  running  after  college  graduates,  there  will  be 
the  soundest  lot  of  underpinning  on  record  in  this  coun- 


56  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


try.  Erudition  is  a  fine  thing,  but  you  can't  get  much 
board  on  it  in  this  town." 

"  But,  sir,"  said  the  graduate,  "  the  annals  of  every  coun- 
try in  which  the  highest  civilization  has  obtained,  show 
that  it  is  the  men  of  letters  who  shape  the  destinies — 

"There  you  go  again!"  said  the  horse  reporter*  "Talk- 
ing about  shaping  destinies,  and  all  such  gruel  as  that. 
Don't  you  worry  about  destiny.  The  chances  are  that, 
even  if  you  were  to  fall  over  what  you  don't  know  and 
break  your  neck  to-morrow,  somebody  would  look  after 
the  destiny-shaping  business  all  right.  Your  best  hold 
for  the  next  year  or  two  will  be  checking  off  barrels  of  A 
i  sugar  for  some  wholesale  grocery  house  over  on  River 
street.  Destiny  won't  get  left  any,  in  the  meanwhile." 

"  Then  you  do  not  think  I  will  be  able  to  make  my 
mark  in  the  journalistic  profession?" 

"You  might,"  replied  the  horse  reporter,  "if  you  were 
to  go  up-stairs  and  fall  over  some  type,  but  not  otherwise 
at  present." 

"But  I  might  do  some  preliminary  work,"  suggested 
the  young  man;  "write  some  sketches  and  things  of  that 
kind." 

"Yes,  you  could  do  that." 

"What  would  you  suggest  for  a  nom  de plume?" 

"Well,"  replied  the  horse  reporter,  "I  should  say  that 
'Affable  Imbecile'  would  about  fill  the  bill  for  you." 

"Good  day,  sir.  I  will  keep  my  eye  on  journalism 
and  await  an  opportunity  to  join  its  ranks." 

"All  right,"  said  the  horse  reporter;  "but  in  case  the 
street-car  conductors  get  up  another  strike  you  had  bet- 
ter remove  your  optic  from  journalism  and  head  for  the 
car-barns." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  57 


IMPROVED  UNDERGARMENTS. 

It  was  a  Vassar  graduate,  of  form  and  feature  fair. 
That  came  unto  an  Editor  who  sat  within  his  lair — 
Her  face  of  pure  Madonna  type,  a  silver  sheen  her  hair. 

"I  know,  sir,"  said  the  lovely  maid,  "that  journalists  who  seek 

To  reach  the  pinnacle  of  fame  and  sit  astride  its  peak, 

Must  strike  out  from  the  trodden  path  and  virgin  conquests  seek. 

"  What  broader  field  can  ever  be  before  your  vision  laid 
Than  that  in  which  are  seen  alike  the  matron  and  the  maid — 
The  holy  sphere  of  Womanhood — true  Womanhood?"  she  said. 

The  Editor  his  eagle  eye  cast  stealthily  around. 

No  voice  was  near,  nor  heard  he  then  of  welcome  feet  the  sound; 

Nor  did  he  weigh,  so  scared  was  he,  eight  ounces  to  the  pound. 

" The  thralldom,"  said  the  graduate,  "in  which  our  sex  is  held 

By  Fashion's  rigid  laws,  no  doubt,  you  often  have  beheld. 

Now  I  will  break  those  galling  chains,  and  Health  to  Beauty  weld. 

"And  ere  again  upon  the  earth  doth  softly  beam  the  moon, 
Your  facile  pen  shall  tell  the  world  of  Woman's  greatest  boon — 
My  patent  non-reversible,  self-acting  chemiloon." 

Up  sprang  the  pallid  Editor.     "  Hence,  horrid  fiend!  "  he  cried. 
"  I  had  a  friend,  a  winsome  lad,  who  took  himself  a  bride — 
A  maid  of  culture,  birth,  and  blood,  and  property  beside. 

'  But  hardly  had  the  honeymoon  its  blissful  zenith  reached, 
When  she  began  to  argue,  and  forever  more  she  preached 
That  hygienic  night-shirts  were  of  cotton  made,  unbleached. 

"  He  bought  the  fatal  garment,  and  (the- bare  thought  makes  me  sick) 
At  once  imagined  that  he  was  a  well-disguised  bedtick. 
His  reason  fled,  and  now  he  is  a  chemiloonatic." 


5  8  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


THE  FATAL  DREAM. 

Summer  in  Coshocton. 

The  soft,  rhythmic,  sensuous  swaying  of  a  pair  of 
striped  stockings  which  hung  in  graceful  fashion  from  a 
clothes-line  that  flecked  the  horizon  in  the  rear  of  Brierton 
Villa  and  lent  a  warm  tint  to  the  turquoise  bloom  of  the 
dreamy  Italian  sky  that  looked  down  in  all  its  azure  beauty 
that  August  morning,  attracted  the  attention  of  Cecil 
Dare,  as  he  walked  listlessly  up  the  gravel  path  leading  to 
the  little  rose-embowered  summer-house  in  which  he  was 
to  meet  Clytie  Corcoran — the  proud,  stately  beauty  to 
whom  all  these  broad  acres  with  their  wealth  of  golden 
grain,  orchards  nodding  with  the  weight  of  rosy-cheeked 
apples,  and  the  old  slab-sided  family  cow  that  had  kicked 
Clytie's  father  into  the  great  Beyond,  of  which  we  know 
so  little  and  are  not  wildly  anxious  to  find  out  more  by 
personal  exploration — would  belong  when  the  two  months 
that  must  elapse  before  she  became  of  age,  had  passed. 

As  he  walked  slowly  along,  his  hands  clasped  behind 
him  in  such  fashion  that  the  large,  gaudy  bone-spavin  on 
the  third  finger  of  his  right  hand,  which  was  all  that  was 
left  to  him  of  his  college  education  as  a  third-baseman, 
did  not  show,  one  thought  was  in  his  mind,  one  care  in 
his  heart.  But  it  was  a  bitter,  bug-in-the-cream-pitcher 
thought,  and,  strive  as  he  might  to  put  it  away,  to  forget 
even  for  an  instant  its  haunting  presence,  the  attempt  was 
of  no  avail,  and  this  man,  proud  in  the  possession  of 
buoyant  health,  great  physical  strength,  and  mental 
vigor  of  no  ordinary  kind,  felt  that  unless  relief  soon 
came  to  him,  death,  or  even  life  in  St.  Louis,  would  be 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  59 


preferable  to  his  present  state  of  misery  and  haggard 
agony. 

"Are  you  dreaming,  darling? "  And  as  Cecil  Dare  looked 
up  in  surprise  at  the  sound  of  the  voice  whose  tones  he 
knew  so  well,  Clytie  Corcoran  stood  by  his  side,  and  be- 
fore he  could  answer  her  question  she  had  placed  her 
shapely  arms  around  his  neck  and  pressed  with  her  dewy 
lips  upon  his  cheek  a  warm,  throbbing,  there-is-no-danger- 
as-long-as-you-grab-the-chair  kiss,  that  seemed  to  him 
ike  a  benediction. 

"And  you  are  late,  too,"  continued  the  girl,  looking 
more  beautiful  than  ever  as  she  stood  there,  the  sun-glints 
that  came  down  through  the  white-crowned  blossoms  of 
the  apple  trees  seeming  to  kiss  the  coronet  of  golden  hair 
that  lay  in  simple,  door-knob  fashion  on  the  queenly  head, 
while  the  wind — sweet  breath  of  morning — brought  to 
her  dimpled  cheeks  the  rosy  flush  that  only  perfect  health 
and  the  right  kind  of  face-powder  can  give.  "  You  are 
nearly  three  minutes  behind  time,  and  if  you  knew  how 
dreary  and  desolate  those  moments  have  been  to  me,  how 
my  heart  has  been  tortured  by  agonizing  doubts  and 
fears,  I  am  sure  you  would  not,  if  you  loved  me,  ever  be 
so  cruel  again." 

"Forgive  me,  my  precious  one,"  said  Cecil,  in  low, 
murmurous  tones  as  he  bent  lovingly  over  the  girl  and 
pressed  a  cold,  calm,  Historical  Society  kiss  on  a  brow 
that  was  fair  as  the  cyclamen  leaves  in  the  woods  around 
them;  "I  will  never  be  late  again." 

"And  I  will  never  leave  you,"  said  the  girl,  "when  the 
maddening  ecstacy  of  our  love  has  found  fruition  in 
marriage.  I  will  always  be  by  your  side  until  death — " 

"Hold!  do  not  speak  of  death,"  cried  Cecil,  drawing 


60  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


her  still  more  closely  to  him.  "I  had  such  a  terrible 
dream  last  night;  such  a  dreadful,  eerie  dream,  that  I 
shudder  even  now  when  I  think  of  it." 

"What  was  it,  sweetheart?"  asks  Clytie. 

"I  dare  not  tell  you,"  he  answers,  his  voice  seeming 
almost  like  a  moan,  so  greatly  is  he  affected. 

"But  you  must  tell  me,"  she  persists;  "surely  you  can 
trust  me,  your  future  bride,  with  any  secret.' 

"It  was  nothing,"  he  says,  trying  to  laugh  away  the 
horror  that  even  the  thought  of  the  dreadful  vision  had 
called  up  to  his  face. 

"But  I  insist  on  knowing,"  she  says,  "and  if  you  do 
not  tell  me  I  shall  know  that  you  do  not  love  me  as  you 
say;  that  you  do  not  trust  me  fully,  religiously,  implicitly, 
as  I  do  you.  Oh,  Cecil,  this  is  not  kind  of  you;  indeed,  it 
is  not!  I  have  lain  my  whole  heart  bare  to  you,  given  to 
you  the  one  and  all-absorbing  passion  of  a  pure  woman's 
first  and  only  love.  I  have  had  no  secrets  from  you.  I 
have  told  you  everything,  even  about  the  corn  on  my  little 
toe.  Is  it  not  so?"  And  as  she  stands  looking  up  to 
him  with  wistful  eyes  in  which  the  mists  of  sorrow  are 
gathering,  he  feels  that  to  doubt  her  love,  to  refuse  her 
any  confidence,  would  be  worse  than  a  crime — it  would 
be  a  sacrilege. 

"I  will  tell  you,  then,  precious  one,"  he  says,  "but 
you  must  be  brave — very  brave." 

"  I  will,"  she  answers. 

"I  dreamed,"  he  said,  "that  we  were  married,  but  had 
become  very,  very  poor — too  poor,  in  fact,  to  keep  even 
one  servant,  and  that  you,  my  bonny  little  blossom,  that 
had  never  before  known  want,  or  sorrow,  or  suffering, 
were  obliged  to  do  all  your  own  household  work." 


LAKESIDE  AfUSINGS.  61 


"But  there  is  nothing  so  terrible  about  that,"  interrupts 
Clytie.  "I  am  young  and  strong." 

"Wait,"  he  says,  in  a  ghostly  whisper.  "I  dreamed 
that  on  the  first  day  of  our  poverty  you  made  some  pie 
— apple  pie — and  told  me  nothing  about  it —  And 
Clytie  sees  his  face  grow  paler,  as  all  the  horror  of  the 
scene  presses  upon  him. 

"Well?"  she  says,  interrogatively. 

"  I  ate  a  piece  of  the  pie,"  he  continues,  "and — can  you 
not  guess?" 

"My  God!"  shrieks  the  girl,  in  an  agony  of  grief, 
"how  long  did  you  live?" 

"Fifteen  minutes" — and,  kissing  her  tenderly,  he  said: 
"We  must  part  forever,  Clytie.  It  would  be  wrong  to 
take  such  chances.  Am  I  not  right,  sweetheart  ?  " 

Looking  into  his  face  with  a  yearning,  passionate 
expression  that  showed  how  her  heart  was  being  riven  by 
this  terrible  experience,  she  said,  with  clenched  hands 
and  lips  that  were  white  with  agony:  "  I  should  smirk  to 
twitter." 


A  MODERN  BALAKLAVA. 

Up  the  stairs,  up  the  stairs, 

Up  to  the  skylight, 
Came  a  young  graduate 

All  in  the  twilight. 
' '  Gosh !  how  my  legs  do  ache, 

These  stairs  will  take  the  cake. " 
Up  to  the  editor's  room 

Climbed  the  third -baseman. 


62  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


He  is  at  last  at  top, 

Only  too  glad  to  stop 
And  rest  his  weary  limbs 

On  a  plush  sofa. 
His  not  to  reason  why, 

His  but  to  keep  up  high; 
His  but  to  keep  his  eye 

Peeled  for  reporters. 

He  went  into  a  room, 

Where,  in  the  gathering  gloom, 
Sat  a  man  writing. 

"  I  want  a  job,"  he  said, 
"  Latin  and  Greek  I've  read." 

Up  to  the  editor's  desk 
Stepped  the  ex-senior. 

Flashed  the  good  club  in  air. 
On  the  young  head  so  bare 

Clattered  and  thundered. 
Gently  they  took  him  out, 

He  has  gone  up  the  spout, 
Nobody  blundered. 


THE  STORY  OF  LUCY. 

After  Lucy  had  grown  up  to  be  a  Young  Lady,  she 
was  quite  good  looking,  and  wore  a  great  many  nice 
clothes.  She  had  been  to  Boarding-School,  and  when 
she  came  home  had  forgotten  how  to  do  any  work.  But 
she  could  play  "The  Maiden's  Prayer"  and  "The  Bat- 
tle of  Prague  "  on  the  piano  very  Nicely  while  her  Mother 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  63 


was  hanging  out  clothes  in  the  back-yard  Monday  after- 
noons. 

But  although  Lucy  could  do  all  this,  her  Papa  did  not 
seem  to  be  satisfied,  for  he  was  a  person  of  no  Culture, 
who  said  girls  ought  to  know  how  to  Cook  and  be  of 
some  Earthly  Account  around  the  house.  He  would  say 
these  Cruel  Words  to  Lucy  sometimes,  and  then  she 
would  go  up-stairs  three  steps  at  a  time,  Slam  the  door 
of  her  room,  and  Weep  Bitterly.  But  before  evening 
came  and  it  was  time  for  her  Young  Man  to  Show  Up, 
the  tears  would  all  be  gone,  and  she  would  put  powder 
on  her  face  and  go  down  into  the  Parlor  about  8  o'clock 
looking  Pretty  Slick.  And  when  the  Young  Man  came 
she  would  run  to  the  door  with  a  Radiant  Smile  and  have 
such  an  ingenue  look  on  her  face  that  the  Young  Man 
would  never  suspect  her  of  sometimes  getting  very  Angry 
and  slamming  things  around.  And  after  Lucy  and  the 
Young  Man  had  sat  in  the  parlor  about  three  hours  and 
Whiled  Away  the  Evening  he  would  start  for  home,  and 
she  would  go  with  him  to  the  door  and  kiss  him  On  The 
Quiet. 

One  evening  while  Lucy  was  waiting  for  the 
Young  Man,  her  father  came  into  the  room.  Just 
then  she  began  to  sing  a  song  called  "Will  My 
Darling  Come  Again? "  When  she  had  finished,  her 
Father  looked  at  her  steadily  for  a  moment,  and  then 
said:  "I  don't  think  he  will,  if  he  ever  Drops  on  your 
Warble." 

I  do  not  think  that  was  just  the  remark  for  Lucy's 
Papa  to  make.  He  might  have  said  that  her  Darling 
would  probably  come  if  she  sent  two  policemen  and  a 
Requisition  after  him,  or  some  harmless  thing  like  that, 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


but  to  give  a  girl  such  a  Racket  about  her  singing  is 
hardly  Square. 

After  Lucy  returned  from  Boarding-School  and  began 
Laying  Pipe  to  secure  the  Young  Man  of  whom  I  told 
you  in  my  last  number,  she  coaxed  her  Papa  to  let  her 
take  lessons  from  a  Singing  Master,  and  pretty  soon  she 
could  Vocalize  quite  well,  and  loved  dearly  to  sit  in  the 
Parlor  and  Turn  Herself  Loose  at  the  piano.  Lucy  was 
very  partial  to  Sentimental  songs,  and  seemed  to  be  a 
Little  Gone  on  those  that  had  rather  sappy  titles,  and 
the  words  to  which  did  not  mean  anything  in  particular. 
She  would  hustle  around  the  Music  Stand  for  awhile, 
and  then  Come  to  The  Surface  with  a  lot  of  such  Truck  as 
"Angel  Voices  Now  Are  Calling,"  " Darling,  Kiss  My 
Eyelids  Down,"  "When  the  Brown  is  On  the  Heather," 
and  so  forth.  To  hear  Lucy  singing  "  Tread  Lightly, 
for  Mother  is  Sleeping,"  while  her  Mamma  was  out  in 
the  yard  with  her  mouth  full  of  Clothespins,  was  worth 
quite  a  journey,  but  Lucy  never  seemed  to  think  of  the 
Incongruity  of  such  proceedings.  She  would  Wrestle 
with  the  piano  every  day,  while  both  her  Parents  were 
working  hard,  and  never  think  that  Idleness  is  the  Mother 
of  Matinees,  and  that  the  Singing  Girl  gathers  no 
Boss. 

One  beautiful  summer  evening  she  was  Having  Her 
Hoot  as  usual,  and  had  got  far  enough  into  the  pile  of 
music  so  that  she  was  singing  Sentimental  Songs.  Fi- 
nally she  started  on  the  one  that  begins,  "  I  Am  Sitting  in 
the  Glen,"  when  suddenly  her  Papa,  who  had  been  try- 
ing to  read  the  Paper,  turned  to  his  Wife  and  said: 
"  How  much  do  you  think  it  would  cost,  mother,  to  move 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  65 


a  fair-sized  glen  about  nine  miles,  and  fix  things  so  that 
it  couldn't  come  back?" 

Then  Lucy  began  to  cry,  and  said  that  her  Papa' was 
a  Brute. 


One  evening  Lucy's  Young  Man  did  not  keep  his  en- 
gagement to  come  and  help  her  Hold  down  the  Sofa, 
and  she  was  very  angry,  because  the  Young  Man  gener- 
ally brought  along  a  box  of  Candy,  and  Lucy  could  make 
it  Look  Tired  about  as  easily  as  any  girl  in  town. 

So  she  sat  down  at  the  Piano  and  began  to  sing.  Af- 
ter she  had  given  the  folks  a  Sample  of  "When  the 
Roses  Bloom  Again,"  "Only  a  Pansy  Flower,"  "Empty 
is  the  Cradle,"  and  a  few  other  Gems  of  Melody  that 
would  make  a  man  feel  like  committing  Murder,  her 
Father  said  that  perhaps  she  had  better  Quit,  as  he  didn't 
care  about  having  the  Patrol  Wagon  making  useless 
trips  on  such  a  cold  night. 

Lucy  made  no  reply  to  this  remark  of  her  Father's,  but 
only  slammed  the  music  down  pretty  Hard,  probably  to 
show  what  she  could  do  in  case  she  should  ever  Get  Real 
Hots  Then  she  began  to  play  the  Piano,  starting  in  with 
"The  Battle  of  Prague."  When  she  had  finished  the 
piece  her  Papa  went  across  the  Room  to  where  his  oldest 
son  was  sitting  and  handed  him  Fifty  Dollars. 

"Why,  Papa,"  said  Lucy,  "what  are  you  giving  James 
all  that  money  for?" 

"Your  brother  bet  me  Fifty  Dollars,"  he  replied 
"that  you  would  Knock  Out  the  Piano  in  the  First 
Round,  and  I  am  giving  up  the  Bundle." 

Then  Lucy  began  to  Cry,  and  said  that  her  Father  and 
Brother  were  Nasty,  Horrid  Things.  But  they  only 
6 


66  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


laughed   at   her,  and  when  she  had  gone   up-stairs  her 
Papa  said  to  James:  "Let  us  open  a  Small  Bottle." 

frlen  are  very  Curious  Creatures,  children.  They  will 
frequently  open  a  Small  Bottle,  and  then  go  home  and 
tell  their  Wives  that  times  are  too  hard  to  buy  a  new 
Bonnet.  But  sometimes  these  men  Lose  Their  Grip,  and 
turn  up  about  Thirteen  or  Fourteen  o'clock  at  night,  hav- 
ing had  to  hire  a  Hack  to  get  home  in,  and  then  some- 
body gets  a  Sealskin  Sacque. 


THE  STORY  OF  ATALANTA. 

"  Would  it  be  too  much  trouble  for  one  of  you  gentle- 
men to  tell  me  where  I  can  find  the  literary  editor?"  said 
a  nice-looking  young  man  as  he  entered  the  editorial 
rooms. 

"No  trouble  at  all  to  tell  you  where  he  is,"  replied  the 
trotting-horse  reporter;  "the  main  difficulty  would  be  in 
your  getting  there  to  interview  him.  The  literary  editor 
is  at  present  breasting  the  sun-kissed  billows  of  the  limpid 
lake — at  least,  that's  where  he  said  he  was  going.  He  is  a 
yachter." 

"A  what?"  asked  the  young  man  at  the  door. 

"A  yachter — sails  around  in  a  boat,  and  talks  about 
shivering  his  timbers,  and  belaying  his  tarry  toplights, 
and  all  such  things  as  that.  You  bet  he's  a  daisy  naviga- 
tor— always  carries  a  compass  in  his  pocket,  and  takes  ob- 
servations every  sunny  afternoon  before  he  starts  for 
home — 'getting  his  bearings,'  he  calls  it — calls  going 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  67 


around  a  corner,  'jibing,'  whatever  that  is,  and  always  re- 
fers to  his  overcoat  pocket  as  a  'mizzen  hatch.'  I'll  bet 
he  can  distance  a  Rear-Admiral  the  first  heat,  when  it 
„ comes  to  lugging  out  nautical  terms.  Our  marine  re- 
porter is  a  pretty  nifty  boy  on  such  matters — I  guess  he 
would  recognize  a  bobstay  if  he  met  one  walking  up  the 
street — but  the  literary  editor  would  make  J.  Fenimore 
Cooper  and  Capt.  Mayne  Reid  think  they  were  born  in 
Iowa  and  had  never  been  nearer  the  sea  than  Keokuk. 
He's  a  two-tenner,  and  no  mistake." 

"What  is  it  you  call  him?"  again  asked  the  man  at  the 
door. 

"A  yachter." 

"You  probably  mean  a  yachtsman,"  suggested  the 
visitor. 

"Probably  I  do,"  was  the  reply,  in  a  somewhat  dis- 
appointed tone  of  voice.  "A  man  can't  make  a  peep 
around  here  but  what  some  duck  picks  him  up  on  the 
pronunciation  of  a  word,  and  they  have  done  it  to  me 
so  often  that  I  expect  before  the  summer  is  over  they  will 
be  trying  to  give  me  pointers  on  Goldsmith  Maid's  pedi- 
gree, or  some  other  little  thing  that  every  school-boy 
ought  to  know." 

"  I  wished  to  see  the  literary  editor  in  regard  to  a  poem 
which  I  would  like  to  see  in  next  Sunday's  paper,"  said 
the  young  man. 

"Did  you  write  this  poem  yourself?"  asked  the  horse 
reporter. 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  thought  so,"  continued  the  admirer  of  Iroquois. 
"  I  thought  there  gleamed  within  your  starry  eye  that 
weird,  haunting  look  that  enables  us  to  drop  on  a. 


68  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


poet  the  minute  he  shows  up.  What  is  your  poem 
about?" 

"Atalanta." 

"I  don't  think  that's  much  of  a  subject,"  said  the 
authority  on  overhead  checks.  "  Atlanta  is  only  a  sec- 
ond-class town,  anyhow.  Why  didn't  you  wind  up  your 
muse  for  a  few  stanzas  about  Chicago,  or  Deadwood,  or 
some  place  where  things  are  lively.  That  would  give 
your  intellect  a  chance.  You  could  just  take  off  the 
bridle  and  cut  her  loose,  on  a  subject  like  that." 

"I  rather  think  you  misapprehend  me,"  said  the  poet. 
"  My  little  effort  does  not  relate  to  Atlanta,  Ga.,  but  to  a 
person  in  classical  history — concerning  which  you  are 
doubtless  in  ignorance  " — and  the  upper  lip  of  the  poet 
curled  in  fine  scorn. 

"Oh,  you  mean  Atalanta,  do  you,  instead  of  Atlanta?" 
replied  the  horse  reporter.  "  How  thoughtless  of  me  to 
make  such  a  mistake.  I  suppose  you  know  all  about 
Attie,  and  the  big  steeplechase  she  was  in? " 

"Well,"  said  the  poet,  in  a  hesitating  manner,  "of 
course  I  am  familiar  with  the  classics,  but  it  has  never 
come  under  my  observation  that  Atlanta  was  ever  the 
heroine  of  any  such  episode  as  the  one  to  which  you 
allude." 

"  Didn't  know  she  was  on  the  turf,  and  won  the  liveli- 
est race  ever  run  in  Arcadia? " 

"No,  sir,  I  did  not,"  replied  the  poet. 

"Then  you  are  not  so  sweetly  fly  as  I  took  you  to  be," 
said  the  horse  reporter,  "and  I  will  give  you  a  few  point- 
ers on  Grecian  history,  and  sweep  away  with  the  dimpled 
hand  of  Knowledge  the  cobwebs  of  ignorance  that  ob- 
scure the  horizon  of  your  powerful  mind.  Atalanta  was. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  69 


the  daughter  of  lasos,  a  high-rolling  old  Greek,  a  de- 
scendant of  Areas  and  Clymene,  the  daughter  of  Minyas. 
When  Attie  was  born  the  old  man  made  a  great  kick. 
He  was  anxious  for  a  male  heir,  and  when  his  wife  gave 
birth  to  a  daughter  things  were  pretty  warm  on  the  street 
where  he  lived.  '  No  such  racket  as  this  for  me,'  said 
lasos.  '  I  don't  propose  to  put  in  the  balance  of  my  life 
buying  sealskin  jackets  and  six-button  gloves  for  this 
girl.'  So  he  put  the  little  girl  on  the  top  of  a  mountain, 
where  a  bear  suckled  her,  and  she  was  found  by  some 
hunters,  who  reared  her,  and  she  followed  the  chase  for 
a  living.  Finally,  old  man  lasos  discovered  that  the 
beautiful  huntress  was  his  daughter,  and  took  her  home. 
When  he  wished  her  to  marry,  she  consented  on  condition 
that  her  suitors  should  run  a  race  with  her — a  kind  of 
weight-for-age  handicap — on  the  following  terms:  They 
were  to  run  without  arms,  and  she  was  to  carry  a  dart  in 
her  hand.  Her  lovers  were  to  start  first,  and  whoever 
arrived  at  the  goal  before  her  would  be  made  her  hus- 
band; but  all  those  whom  she  overtook  were  to  be  killed 
by  the  dart.  As  Attie  had  lots  of  speed  and  was  dead 
game,  pretty  much  all  the  tony  boys  in  Arcadia  were 
soon  lying  on  the  race-track  with  a  stick  through  their 
livers;  but  one  fellow — I  guess  likely  he  was  a  ringer — 
finally  beat  her.  His  name  was  Meilanion,  and  he  was  a 
regular  masher.  Venus  just  went  loony  about  him,  and 
had  given  him  three  apples  from  the  garden  of  Hesper- 
ides.  So  when  Meilanion  started  in  the  race  with  Ata- 
lanta,  he  just  whooped  himself  until  he  reached  the  quar- 
ter pole,  and  then  he  dropped  one  of  the  apples.  Ata- 
lanta  stopped  to  look  at  the  beautiful  fruit,  and  Meilan- 
ion got  a  long  lead.  He  played  this  game  at  the  half 


;o  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


and  three-quarter  mile  poles,  and  then  scooted  down  the 
homestretch  at  his  best  lick.  Atalanta  gave  him  a  good 
race,  but  he  finally  beat  her  half  a  length  in  2:24^,  and 
then  she  married  him.  That's  a  correct  summary  of  the 
race,  sonny,  and  you  can  bet  on  it" — and  the  horse  re- 
porter smiled  affably. 


THE  TEST  OF  LOVE. 

"I  should  blush  to  twitter." 

These  words  were  uttered  in  a  half-laughing,  half-seri- 
ous tone  by  a  beautiful  girl  of  nineteen  who  stood  on  the 
veranda  of  a  turreted  villa  and  looked  with  eager,  wistful 
gaze  toward  the  West,  where  the  setting  sun  was  gilding 
with  its  expiring  rays  the  green-topped  hills  and  heather- 
hedged  vales  which  lay  between  Jackson  Hall  and  the 
great  lake  on  whose  blue  bosom  idly  floated  a  fine  fleet 
of  lumber  hookers.  Turning  quickly  from  her  contem- 
plation of  the  golden  halo  which  the  setting  sun  cast  over 
the  earth,  Miriam  Jackson  spoke  to  her  father,  saying: 
"Are  you  going  to  Kenosha  this  evening,  papa?" 

"No,  darling,"  was  the  reply,  the  voice  of  the  pork- 
packer  instinctively  assuming  a  more  tender  tone  as  he 
addressed  his  only  daughter,  "  not  Kenosha — some  other 
station  on  the  North-Western  Road."  And  springing 
lightly  into  a  coupe  which  drove  up  to  the  door,  he 
kissed  his  hand  to  Miriam,  and  was  gone. 

"At  last,"  she  said  softly  to  herself,  "at  last  he  has 
gone,  and  left  me  alone — alone  with  my  thoughts.  And 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  71 


what  are  those  thoughts?  what  can  they  be,  except  of 
George  and  my  love  for  him — that  love  which  has  gilded 
my  heart  with  its  bright,  beautiful  rays  of  hope,  as  the 
morning  sun  gilds  the  Alhambra  Palace.  Oh,  George, 
without  your  love  I  should  indeed  be  a  desolate  girl.' 

When  Miriam  was  started,  she  could  go  quite  a  clip. 
******* 

Over  the  closely-trimmed  lawn,  whose  velvety  surface 
gave  forth  no  sounds  as  his  feet  pressed  heavily  upon  it, 
came  a  young  man — a  strong,  handsome  fellow  in  the  full 
flush  or  straight  flush — whichever  suits  the  reader  best — 
of  early  manhood.  Miriam  did  not  see  him,  but  the  faith- 
ful watch-dog  did,  and  came  bounding  forth  from  his  ken- 
nel, grabbing  the  young  man  blithely  by  the  seat  of  the 
pants,  and  galloping  away  in  merry  glee  to  the  back-yard 
with  his  mouth  full  of  gents'  furnishing  goods.  Fortu- 
nately for  George  W.  Simpson,  the  jocund  day  was  swiftly 
waning,  and  gray-hooded  night  was  spreading  her  sable 
mantle  o'er  all,  including  his  pants.  Stepping  still  more 
softly  over  the  lawn,  he  was  on  the  porch  seated  in  a  chair, 
before  Miriam  was  aware  of  his  presence,  and  it  was  only 
when  he  spoke  her  name  in  the  low,  dulcet  tones  that  one 
only  acquires  by  living  in  Chicago  and  trying  to  talk 
while  a  tug  is  taking  some  vessels  through  the  river,  that 
she  knew  of  his  presence.  Running  quickly  to  him,  she 
knelt  by  his  side,  and  placing  her  fair  young  face  close  to 
his,  said:  "Is  it  you,  darling?" 

George  never  deceived  a  trusting  heart.  "It  is  me," 
he  said,  admitting  his  identity  and  lack  of  familiarity  with 
Lindley  Murray  at  the  same  time. 

"  I  was  so  awfully  afraid  you  wouldn't  come,"  continued 
the  girl,  "and  papa  acted  as  if  he  never  would  go,  and 


72  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


really  and  truly,  I  began  to  think  that  perhaps  you  had 
missed  the  train,  and  then  again  that  maybe  you  didn't 
love  me  at  all,  and  ever  and  ever  so  many  dreadfully  hor- 
rid things,  that  I  was  almost  ready  to  cry.  But  you  are 
here  now,  aren't  you,  darling? " 

With  a  rib-cracking  hug  the  young  man  testified  to  his 
presence.  Then  looking  tenderly  into  the  blue  eyes,  and 
kissing  fondly  the  red  lips,  he  said:  "Are  you  sure  you 
love  me,  little  one?" 

"Sure!  "  exclamed  the  girl,  starting  to  her  feet.  "Are 
you  sure  that  you  exist?  are  you  sure  that  the  sun  will 
rise  to  morrow?" 

George  Simpson  did  not  reply.  He  had  lived  ni 
Chicago  many  years,  and  had  long  since  quit  betting 
on  sure  things. 

"So  sure, '  said  Miriam,  "as  yon  planet  that  shines  so 
brightly  in  the  eastern  horizon  will  be  there  when  another 
day  shall  have  run  its  course,  so  sure  is  it  that  my  love 
for  you  will  never,  can  never,  fade  or  falter." 

George  liked  this.  He  didn't  know  what  horizon 
meant,  and  was  a  trifle  hazy  about  planet,  but  when  Miriam 
talked  about  the  day  running  its  course,  he  was  at  home. 
He  visited  a  running-course  every  summer,  and  generally 
got  his  money  on  the  wrong  horse.  "I  must  test  her 
love,"  he  said  softly  to  himself,  and  turning  to  the  girl, 
he  said:  "And  would  you  prove  your  love,  my  own?" 

"Would  I,  my  darling?     Try  me;  that  is  all  I  ask." 

Bending  low  over  the  tiny  pink  ear,  George  Simpson 
whispered  into  it  a  few  earnest  words.  A  rosy  flush  suf- 
fused Miriam's  cheek  as  she  rose,  and  without  a  word  led 
George  to  her  father's  room.  "In  there,"  she  said,  "are 
pants  till  you  can't  rest." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  73 


The  door  closed  behind  him  with  a  heavy  clang.  Five 
minutes  later  he  emerged,  clad  in  a  pair  of  trousers  be- 
longing to  the  haughty  pork-packer. 

Miriam  had  proven  her  love. 


THE    POET'S    FATE. 

It  was  a  solemn-looking  gent 

Said  to  the  boy  that  ran 
The  elevator:  "Canst  thou  tell 

Me  where  I'll  find  the  man 
That  puts  into  the  paper 

The  item  'bout  the  snake? 
For  I  have  one,  my  gentle  youth, 

That's  bound  to  take  the  cake. 

Full  oft  the  elevator  boy 

Had  heard  men  talk  thus  queer, 
And  knew  'twas  but  a  ruse  to  get 

The  editorial  ear, 
And  pour  into  its  tiny  shell 

Bad  epics  about  Spring, 
Or  else,  perchance,  remark  that  Time 

Was  ever  on  the  wing. 

He  gazed  upon  the  stranger  man 

From  out  his  clear  blue  eye, 
And  said:  "  Methinks,  my  gentle  sir, 

You're  playing  rather  high; 
But  turn  into  yon  hallway, 

And  open  wide  the  door — " 
Then  to  himself  this  wicked  youth 

Laughed  till  his  sides  were  sore. 


74  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


It  was  the  dreadful  poet's  lair 

In  which  the  stranger  went, 
But  quickly  came  he  out  again, 

On  other  things  intent; 
For,  lo!  the  faithful  bull-dog 

On  his  new  pants  had  lunched, 
While  the  machine  that  makes  blank  verse 

His  ribs  had  sorely  punched. 


AN  ICONOCLASTIC  PAPA. 

They  sat  alone  in  a  deeply-shaded  recess  of  the  bay 
window,  Violet  Caryll  and  Adelbert  Jones,  while  just  be- 
yond them  through  the  filmy  lace  curtains  of  marvelous 
texture  and  priceless  worth  could  be  seen  the  forms  of 
the  merry  dancers  as  they  swept  languidly  by  in  the  sen- 
suous measures  of  the  waltz,  fair  young  faces  laid  trust- 
fully against  shoulder-blades,  and  beautiful  forms  en- 
circled by  strong,  manly  arms  that  would  gladly  have 
held  them  forever  and  sheltered  them  from  the  storms 
that  life,  however  fair  it  seems,  must  bring  to  all. 

Nearly  a  twelvemonth  ago  these  two,  sitting  in  the 
window,  had  plighted  their  troth.  Violet  Caryll  was  the 
only  daughter  of  a  purse-proud  millionaire,  and  accus- 
tomed to  every  luxury  that  money  could  purchase,  while 
Adelbert  Jones  was  only  a  poor  book-keeper,  with  no 
chance  to  steal  anything  and  get  ahead  in  the  world.  He 
had  come  to  the  soiree  dansante  given  by  Violet's  father 
in  honor  of  her  nineteenth  birthday,  and  had  wandered 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  75 


with  her  to  the  bay  window,  where,  secure  from  observa- 
tion, they  might  talk  of  the  all-absorbing  passion  that 
bound  their  hearts  together  in  the  silken  fetters  of  love. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  you,  darling,  all  the  day," 
said  Violet  in  a  low,  sweet  voice,  the  very  modulations 
of  which  told  better  than  words  of  how  her  whole  being 
was  wrapped  up  in  the  love  she  bore  the  strong-limbed 
young  man  whose  eyes  looked  into  hers  with  such  a  ten- 
der expression.  "  I  have  not  been  here  at  all,  but  away, 
away — I  hardly  know  where.  Only  in  the  land  that  my 
footsteps  have  lingered  in  all  day,  I  never  cried  for  love 
that  did  not  come,  nor  felt  hungered  for  love's  own 
gifts,  nor  felt  lonely  nor  desolate,  nor  afraid.  Because, 
beneath  the  turquoise  skies  of  my  mystical  dreamland, 
in  the  rose-laden  air,  love  was  always  with  me;  love,  with 
strong  arms,  and  clinging  kisses,  and  deathless  tender- 
ness. And  I  knew  no  loneliness,  nor  sorrow,  nor  heart- 
break." 

"But  you  do  not  doubt  my  love,  sweetheart,"  he  mur- 
mured, bending  over  her  with  lover-like  tenderness  and 
kissing  softly  the  wine-red  lips  that  overhung  the  sensi- 
tive, drooping  mouth. 

"No,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  proud,  love-lit 
eyes,  while  a  winsome  smile  lent  additional  beauty  to  the 
fair  face.  "I  do  not  doubt  you  for  an  instant,  only  when 
I  am  lonely  and  sad,  and  then  I  think  that  some  one 
more  beautiful  than  I  may  win  you  from  me.  I  know 
that  I  am  not  beautiful,  Adelbert,  and  in  my  jealous  mo- 
ments it  comes  to  me  with  a  great  throb — the  power  of 
beauty  over  a  man.  Soft,  pearly  flesh,  rounded  curves, 
sweet  red  lips,  velvety  eyes — all  the  magic  and  marvel  of 
tint  and  texture  of  outline — when  I  think  of  this,  I  say, 


76  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


I  am  in  utter  despair  " — and  the  proud  girl  crushed  with 
cruel  force  between  her  white,  tapering  fingers  a  flower- 
pot that  stood  with  others  in  the  window.  The  noise  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  her  father,  who  was  passing  by, 

and  he  pushed  aside  the  curtains  and  entered. 

******  * 

"How  much  will  a  new  window  cost?"  said  old  Mr. 
Caryll  to  his  agent  the  next  morning. 
"Did  he  take  the  sash  with  him?" 
"Yes." 

"About  fifteen  dollars." 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Two  years  later  Violet  Caryll  married  a  man  who 
owned  two  steam  barges  and  a  tug.  But  her  heart  was 
desolate  and  her  young  love  blighted. 


A  SEA  TALE. 

It  was  night  on  the  water. 

The  black  waves  with  their  foaming  crests  beat  with 
sullen  roar  against  a  rocky  coast,  seeming  to  chant  in 
thunderous  tones  the  requiem  of  those  who  had  perished 
in  the  treacherous  bosom  of  the  deep. 

In  the  little  cottage  that  stood  near  the  promontory 
known  as  "Rupert's  Leap"  (so  called  because  a  hardy 
fisherman  named  Rupert,  when  under  the  influence  of 
liquor,  offered  to  bet  that  no  one  was  sucker  enough  to 
jump  from  it  into  the  sea),  sat  an  old  man  and  a  girl,  the 
latter  just  budding  into  womanhood  and  striped  hose. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  77 


"Tis  a  wild  night  without,"  said  the  fisherman,  as  he 
listened  to  the  weird  music  of  the  gale  as  it  howled  dis- 
mally over  moor  and  woodland.  The  old  man  had  been 
to  a  Wagner  concert  once,  but  came  back  with  the  re- 
mark that  there  was  no  use  in  paying  two  dollars  for 
what  you  could  get  at  home  any  time  the  wind  blew. 

"Yes,  grandpapa,  the  north  wind  is  abroad;  heaven 
help  the  poor  sailors  that  must  face  it!  " 

"Fifteen  years  ago  this  spring,  Miriam,  your  father's 
good  ship,  the  Mary  Ann,  of  Gopher  Creek,  went  down 
with  all  on  board." 

"Why  didn't  some  of  them  get  off?"  asked  the  maid- 
en; but  her  query  was  unheeded.  The  old  man  was 
listening  intently,  every  nerve  strained  to  catch  the 
faintest  sound. 

"  I  knew  it,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed.  "  Did  you  not 
hear  that  faint  boom  just  now?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "but  I  thought  it  was  Logan's." 

"  Jest  not,  girl,  at  such  a  time  as  this.  Fellow-crea- 
tures are  in  danger.  The  life-boat  must  be  manned." 
And  putting  on  his  oil-skin  coat,  the  brave  old  veteran 
started  out  into  the  raging  tempest,  leaving  the  girl 
alone  with  her  thoughts  and  a  plug  of  tobacco  that,  in 
his  excitement,  her  grandsire  had  left. 

Down  to  the  cliffs  went  the  old  man.  The  villagers 
were  already  there  and  had  lighted  a  bonfire,  by  whose 
fitful  glare  could  be  seen  a  vessel — a  finely-insured  craft 
— lying  crosswise  on  a  reef  about  a  mile  from  shore.  A 
few  of  the  crew  could  be  discerned  clinging  to  the  main- 
top-yard, one  of  whom  seemed  to  be  the  captain,  as  he 
had  the  anchor  in  his  hand  and  was  apparently  giving 
orders, 


78  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"  If  the  spritsail-yard  holds  the  bobstay  in  place,  they 
may  yet  be  saved,"  said  Gaffer  Johnson,  peering  anx- 
iously in  the  direction  of  the  stranded  ship. 

"  'An  it  parts,  what  then? "  asked  a  young  man  who 
had  pushed  his  way  from  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  to 
where  the  old  heads  were  assembled. 

"Heaven  help  the  underwriters,"  said  Gaffer,  senten- 
tiously. 

"  But  something  should  be  done  to  save  those  unfor- 
tunate men,"  said  the  youth.  "  Have  you  no  plan?" 

But  none  could  be  thought  of.  The  ship  was  evi- 
dently breaking  np,  and  soon  nothing  but  broken  frag- 
ments would  be  left  of  the  once  stanch  hull.  Word  had 
been  sent  to  the  nearest  life-saving  station,  but  would 
it  arrive  in  time?  The  suspense  was  dreadful. 

Suddenly  the  noise  of  wheels  was  heard,  and  amid  the 
nearty  cheers  of  the  fishermen  a  foaming  horse  galloped 
up  to  them  with  the  precious  life-line  and  cannon  be- 
hind him.  By  this  time  two  of  the  five  men  at  the  mast- 
head had  become  exhausted  and  dropped  into  the  seeth- 
ing torrent  below,  never  to  rise.  By  the  gray  light  of 
morning  which  stole  slowly  over  the  eastern  hills,  the 
three  almost  exhausted  sailors  saw  the  approach  of  the 
life-saving  apparatus  and  took  heart.  Huddled  together 
in  the  cross-trees,  they  looked  like  tiny  things,  instead  of 
brawny  men  of  giant  strength. 

With  the  life-saving  crew  came  renewed  activity.  The 
cannon  was  quickly  loaded,  and  the  bomb  that  was  to 
carry  the  precious  line  to  the  wreck  placed  carefully  in 
its  mouth.  Old  Tom  Gassaway,  who  had  killed  more 
whales  (around  the  stove)  than  any  other  man  in  Nan- 
tucket  since  his  father  died,  stood  with  the  lanyard  in 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS  79 


hand.  Carefully  he  sighted  the  cannon,  and  at  length 
was  ready.  It  was  a  moment  of  awful  suspense. 

At  last  he  fired. 

When  the  smoke  had  cleared  away,  all  eyes  were 
turned  in  the  direction  of  the  ship.  A  cry  went  up. 
Tom's  aim  had  been  a  true  one. 

He  had  shot  the  men  off  the  mast. 


HE  BLUFFED  AND  WON. 

"  I  prithee  do  not  go." 

Reginald  Mulcahey  turned  as  these  words,  spoken  in 
tones  that  were  tenderly  thrilling,  fell  upon  his  good 
right  ear,  and  advanced  slowly  up  the  plank  sidewalk 
that  led  from  the  portcullis  to  the  front  steps  of  the  ter- 
raced castle  of  Ethelbert  McMurty,  eighth  Duke  of  Blue 
Island  Avenue. 

"I  thought  you  would  speak  to  me,  Lady  Constance," 
he  said,  to  a  tall,  shapely  maiden  of  nineteen  summers, 
who  stood  on  the  veranda  of  the  castle.  "  I  thought 
you  could  not  send  me  away  forever  without  one  word  of 
hope — one  little,  tiny,  Democratic-vote-in-Iowa  hope.  I 
know  full  well  that  in  the  dreary,  dismal,  New-York-/^/- 
editorial  future,  which  rises  up  before  me  like  a  black- 
winged  spectre  of  the  night,  there  can  be  naught  in  my 
life  but  desolate  days  whose  hours  shall  pass  with  leaden 
feet,  and  black,  bitter  nights,  when  I  shall  toss  around 
restlessly  in  a  poker  game,  thinking  only  of  the  love  that 
has  gone  from  me  forever.  We  may  never  meet  again. 
Constance — probably  never  shall,  unless  I  begin  going  to 


So  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  . 


the  matinees — but  I  should  like  to  feel  that,  although 
you  can  never  love  me  again,  never  let  me  buy  candy  for 
you,  there  is  still  in  your  heart  a  kindly  feeling,  a  tinge 
of  pity,  for  one  to  whom  your  sweet  face  has  for  many, 
many  years — way  back  before  the  White  Stockings  won 
the  championship — been  a  beacon  light  to  guide  him 
safely  o'er  the  wind-swept  sea  of  North  Side  life.  Am 
I  hoping  for  too  much?"  And  the  beautiful  brown  eyes 
that  had  witched  so  many  hearts  from  behind  the  ribbon 
counter  looked  into  those  of  Constance  McMurty  with  a 
wistful,  pleading,  don't-untie-the-dog-if-you-love-me  look 
that  would  have  melted  a  heart  of  Chicago  beefsteak. 

For  an  instant  the  girl  did  not  reply.  A  look  of  pa  n, 
as  if  some  sad  memory  had  been  recalled  by  Reginald's 
words,  or  a  corset  steel  got  loose,  passed  over  her  face; 
and  then,  regaining  her  composure  by  a  mighty  effort,  she 
placed  a  tiny  gloved  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder, 
and  spoke  in  low,  measured  tones,  that  showed,  far  more 
than  could  any  words,  the  terrible  intensity  of  the  agony 
that  this  separation  was  causing  her: 

"For  two  years,  Reginald,"  she  said,  "I  have  loved 
you  with  a  deep,  passionate,  all-absorbing  love  that 
would  make  your  head  swim  if  you  only  knew  about  it.  I 
have  looked  forward  with  pride  and  joy  in  my  girlish  in- 
nocence and  enthusiasm  to  the  day  when  you  should  lead 
me  to  the  nuptial  altar,  and  crown  the  sweet  spring-time 
of  my  life  with  the  golden  glory  of  a  love  that  should 
last  forever.  I  had  whispered  to  myself  that  I  should 
make  you  a  faithful,  loving,  always-have-breakfast-in- 
time  wife.  There  has  come  to  me  often  a  vision  of  a 
happy  home,  where  I  should  pass  my  days  in  happiness 
and  stocking  mending.  But  the  vision  has  gone,  the 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  81 


beautiful  blue  sky,  with  its  fringe  of  rose-tinted  clouds, 
has  passed  away,  and  in  its  place  I  see  an  angry  firma- 
ment, across  which  drift  the  leaden  clouds  of  despair. 
And  so  it  is  best  that  we  should  part  now,  before  supper, 
and  let  the  dead  past  be  its  own  undertaker." 

Reginald  saw  that  all  hope  was  gone,  that  he  was  cer- 
tain to  be  left  on  third  base.  "  Good-bye,  Constance,"  he 
murmured.  "  I  must  go  now,  because  I  want  to  stop  on 
my  way  over  town  and  buy  my  sister  a  sealskin  sacque." 

The  girl  turned  quickly  and  looked  at  him  earnestly. 
"  Do  you  mean  what  you  say?"  she  asked,  in  hoarse,  anx- 
ious tones. 

"  I  do,"  was  the  reply. 

"  And  would  you  buy  your  wife  a  sealskin  sacque  ? " 

"Certainly,"  said  Reginald;  "two  of  them,  if  she 
liked." 

A  happy  smile  spread  over  the  girl's  face.  Twining 
her  arms  around  Reginald's  neck,  she  placed  her  tiny 
bead  on  his  shoulder,  and  then  the  little  rosebud  mouth 
puckered  up  with  a  sweet,  beatific  pucker,  as  she  said,  in 
tender  tones  : 

"  You  may  call  again  this  evening.  Heaven  intended 
us  for  each  other." 


VIEWS  ON  ART. 

"Good  day,  gentlemen." 

A  rather  pretty  young  lady  stood  in  the  doorway  of 
the  editorial  rooms,  and  paused  in  graceful  expectancy 
after  announcing  her  presence. 

6 


82  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"Do  you  object,"  she  continued,  "to  my  talking  to 
you  gentlemen  a  little  while  on  a  matte:  which  may  be 
of  interest  to  you?" 

"I  don't,"  replied  the  horse  reporter.  "If  any  person 
can  gain  instruction  or  amusement  from  a  chaste  conver- 
sation with  me,  they  are  welcome  to  do  so.  Heaven  fore- 
fend  that  I  should,  by  the  thoughtless  refusal  of  an  in- 
nocent request,  embitter  forever  a  life  that  would  other- 
wise be  bright  and  happy.  What  direction  would  you 
like  to  have  the  conversation  take?  1  know  some  daisy 
stories  concerning  the  trials  to  which  early  missionaries 
in  Africa  were  subjected  through  neglecting  to  take  mos- 
quito bars  with  them;  and  a  corker  about  a  man  in  Ohio, 
who,  forgetting  that  his  wife  was  born  in  Boston,  said  he 
would  sooner  own  Goldsmith  Maid  than  be  the  author 
of  Emerson's  works." 

"It  wasn't  anything  of  that  kind  I  desired,"  said  the 
young  lady,  blushing  very  prettily.  "The  purpose  of 
my  visit  was  to  call  your  attention  to  a  work  of  art  I  am 
engaged  in  selling,"  and  she  unfolded  a  picture  which 
represented  two  boats  lying  alongside  of  each  other  on  a 
placid  sheet  of  water,  one  containing  a  young  man  and 
the  other  a  young  woman. 

"Is  that  the  work  of  art?"  asked  the  horse  re- 
porter. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What's  the  name  of  it?" 

"The  title  is  'On  the  Lake,'  and  it  is  considered  a 
very  fine  picture,"  continued  the  young  lady. 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  see  the  young  man  has  got  hold  of 
the  young  lady's  hand.  What's  that  for?" 

"Why,"  said  the  visitor,   blushing  violently,  "  he  is— 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  83 


that  is,  I  suppose — they  seem  to  be — why,  the  man  is 
making  love  to  the  young  lady." 

"Oh,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "he  is  seeking  to  win 
her  young  affections,  is  he?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  fair  art  merchant,  "  I  suppose 
that  is  it." 

"  But  what's  he  lying  down  on  his  stomach  in  the  boat 
for?  Has  he  got  the  colic? " 

"No,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  followed  by  more  blushes. 
"His  position  is  one  of  negligent  ease,  made  so  by  the 
artist  in  order  to  more  fully  carry  out  the  thoughts  sug- 
gested by  the  picture." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  horse  reporter.  May- 
be you're  right,  but  it  doesn't  look  natural.  I  guess  he's 
sort  of  scrouching  down  that  way  in  case  the  girl's  father 
should  happen  to  be  over  there  on  the  shore  of  the  lake, 
with  a  gun.  Was  this  picture  drawn  from  life?" 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  was  the  reply.  "  It  is  generally 
the  case,  in  pictures  of  this  character,  that  the  subject  is 
an  ideal  one." 

"I  suppose  the  young  man's  name  is  Cholly,"  contin- 
ued the  horse  reporter.  "  He  looks  as  if  it  might  be. 
He  has  got  one  of  those  you-may-kiss-me-but-don't-tell- 
papa  mustaches,  and  a  pair  of  whither-are-we-drifting 
pants.  You  can  just  bet  that  his  name  is  Cholly,  and 
the  chances  are  that  he  will  go  bycicle-riding  as  soon  as 
he  gets  ashore.  So  they  are  making  love,  are  they?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  young  lady.  "Of  course  I 
don't  know — " 

"  Oh,  certainly  not;  Chicago  girls  never  do,  but  a  man 
who  tried  to  travel  on  what  they  miss  wouldn't  get  far 
away.  1  guess  from  the  way  they  both  look — the  sort  of 


84  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


steer-found-in-the-corn  expression  on  the  girl's  face — that 
Cholly  has  asked  her  to  be  his  bonnie  bride.  Think  so  ? " 

"  It  would  certainly  seem  that  he  is  about  to  declare 
his  passion,"  said  the  young  lady. 

"  Yes,  it  looks  as  though  he  was  going  to  take  the  fatal 
step.  I'll  bet  he  feels  pretty  corky  about  it,  too.  The 
girl  has  probably  been  giving  him  penwipers,  and  slippers 
that  fit  somebody  else,  and  silk  suspenders  with  storks 
embroidered  on  them;  and  like  as  not  she  has  sent  him 
a  couple  of  plaques,  on  which  are  painted  some  green 
cows  standing  pensively  under  blue  trees — the  work  of 
her  own  fair  hands.  I  knew  a  young  fellow  once  whose 
girl  sent  him  a  dozen  handkerchiefs.  He  was  a  highly- 
educated  young  man — knew  so  much  Greek  that  he 
couldn't  earn  his  board.  He  acknowledged  the  gift,  and 
said  that  every  time  he  used  one  of  those  handkerchiefs 
he  thought  of  her.  The  girl  wrote  back  that  his  words 
were  very  dear  to  her;  that  she  was  always  sure  of  his 
love,  because  in  Chicago  everybody  had  catarrh,  and  as 
long  as  the  handkerchiefs  held  out  he  would  never  have 
time  to  let  his  affection  for  her  waver.  " 

"  Would  you  like  to  buy  a  copy  of  this  picture? "  asked 
the  young  lady. 

"I  think  not,"  said  the  horse  reporter.  "I  don't  go 
much  on  the  ideal,  even  in  art.  The  kind  of  pictures  that 
we  need  for  the  salon  or  boudoir  are  those  that  treat  of 
real  life.  The  fleeting  fancy  of  a  poet's  brain,  limned  in 
living  colors  by  the  painter's  brush,  is  all  right  enough,  but 
what  really  catches  the  average  citizen  is  something  that 
treats  of  actual  life,  such  as  '  Rebecca  at  the  Well,'  or 
'The  Brush  on  the  Homestretch.'  Art  fhat  is  to  be  pop- 
ular, must  treat  on  popular  subjects." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  85 


"Perhaps,"  said  the  young  lady,  unrolling  another 
picture,  which  represented  a  pair  of  lovers  standing 
•mder  a  tree,  "you  might  like  this.  It  is  entitled  'One 
Heart,  One  Thought.' " 

t  "  No,"  was  the  reply.  "  It's  too  ideal,  again.  If  you 
could  get  up  one  entitled  'One  Heart  and  Four  Spades,' 
it  would  sell  well  in  Chicago.  Such  a  picture  would  ap- 
peal to  the  artistic  nature  of  our  most  prominent  citizens." 

"  Good  day,  sir,"  said  the  young  lady.  "  I  am  much 
obliged  for  your  courtesy  and  advice." 

"  Don't  mention  it.  Come  in  again,  and  I  will  let  you 
look  at  some  of  our  prize  stories." 


HOW  HE  WON  HER. 

It  was  a  West  Side  maiden,  of  features  fair  to  view — 
Tip-tilted  nose,  small  mouth,  and  eyes  of  purely  azure  hue — 
That  sat  within  a  room  where  taste  and  art  had  been  combined 
To  harmonize  each  article,  from  cuspidor  to  blind. 

But  yet,  despite  this  showing  of  comfoit  and  of  wealth; 
Despite  the  fact,  all  plain,  that  she  was  in  the  best  of  health. 
The  maiden  heaved  a  sigh  that  shook  her  very  diaphragm, 
And  murmured  in  despairing  tones:  "  A  wretched  girl  I  am. 

"  My  cruel,  cruel  papa,  of  adamantine  heart, 
Hath  harshly  said  that  George  and  I  forevermore  must  part, 
Unless  a  thousand  dollars  he  can  furnish  in  the  morn — 
Oh,  dear!  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  I  never  had  been  born." 


86  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"  Why  do  you  weep,  my  darling?  "  a  sweet  voice  whispers,  and 

At  once  she  feels  as  chipper  as  a  colt  behind  a  band. 

An  arm  her  waist  encircles,  on  his  shirt-front  lies  her  head; 

"  To-morrow  morn,"  he  says,   "I'll  have  the  money — or  be  dead." 

"Oh,  George,"  the  maiden  whispers,  "  I  beg  you  be  not  rash; 
My  heart  is  all  your  own,  true  love  is  measured  not  by  cash." 
But  even  as  he  presses  on  her  lips  a  pulsing  kiss, 
She  feels  that  with  the  currency  she'd  still  enjoy  the  bliss. 

The  morrow  comes,  and  after  the  sun  has  sunk  to  rest 
And  painted  with  its  rays  the  gold  and  crimson-tinted  West, 
George  Simpson  boldy  enters  the  house  wherein  reside 
Her  parents,  and  the  girl  who  soon  will  be  his  bonny  bride. 

"  Here,  sirrah,  is  your  money,"  he  says,  and  placeth  there 
The  ransom  of  the  girl  for  whom  his  last  year's  clothes  he'll  wear. 
"  Whence  comes  this  sum?  "  the  maiden  wildly  asks  him  in  her  glee; 
George  murmurs  in  her  pearly  ear:  "I  bet  on  Jay-Eye-See." 


THE  PORK-PACKER'S  AWAKENING. 

Arthur  Ainsleigh  rose  wearily  from  the  bed  on  which 
he  had  tossed  restlessly  during  the  long  watches  of  the 
night,  and  scanned  with  eager  eyes  the  morning  paper 
of  the  previous  day,  which  his  landlady,  a  kindly  soul, 
had  left  in  his  room.  When  in  health,  Arthur  was  as 
handsome  a  man  as  one  could  wish  to  look  upon.  Reared 
in  the  lap  of  luxury,  and  dandled  carefully  on  the  knee 
of  the  same  party,  he  had  been  cast,  by  the  disappear- 
ance of  a  bank  cashier,  upon  the  mercies  of  a  cold  and 
pitiless  world  when  just  about  to  enter  upon  a  life  whose 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS,  87 


horizon  was  undimmed,  except  by  the  rose-tinted  clouds 
of  prosperity  which  flecked  its  uttermost  rim.  But 
Arthur  was  not  of  the  kind  that  gives  way  to  despair. 
Although  deserted  by  those  who  had  fawned  upon  him 
in  the  days  of  prosperity,  he  had  confidence  in  his  own 
pure  soul  and  strong  heart.  A  position  as  book-keeper 
in  a  shooting  gallery  had  sufficed  to  keep  him  from  act- 
ual want,  but  an  attack  of  fever  left  him  penniless,  and, 
save  for  his  landlady,  friendless. 

While  reading  the  paper,  an  advertisement  for  a  young 
man  to  act  as  private  secretary  met  his  eye.  He  an- 
swered it,  and  the  next  day  received  a  reply,  telling  him 
to  call  at  a  residence  in  the  fashionable  quarter  of  the 
city  that  evening.  He  was  on  hand  at  the  appointed 
time,  and  was  shown  by  a  liveried  servant  into  a  sump- 
tuously-furnished parlor,  where  sat  a  fine-looking  man 
of  fifty,  who  turned  his  head  as  Arthur  entered. 

"Mr.  Ainsleigh,  I  presume?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir;  have  I  the  honor  of  addressing  Mr.  Stuy- 
vesant  McGuire?" 

"That  is  my  name;  sit  down.  But  why  do  you  wear 
a  business  suit  when  calling  upon  a  gentleman  in  the 
evening?" 

"My  claw-hammer  coat  is  in  hoc"  responded  the 
young  man. 

"Humph  !  you  are  honest." 

It  is  needless  to  detail  the  conversation  between  the 
two  men.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  Arthur  was  engaged  as 
private  secretary  to  Stuyvesant  McGuire,  pork-packer 
and  politician,  and  was  to  be  a  member  of  the  household. 
The  next  day  he  entered  upon  his  duties,  not  having 
seen  the  other  members  of  the  family,  a  wife  and 


38  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


daughter.  He  met  them  at  supper.  Alberta  McGuire 
was  just  twenty,  and  full  of  the  budding  beauty  of  young 
womanhood.  Her  hair  was  a  deep,  rich  brown,  which, 
in  the  sunlight,  had  a  tinge  of  gold  in  its  high  lights, 
while  in  its  shadows  it  was  almost  black.  Her  eyes  were 
deeply  brown,  and  so  tender,  so  soft,  that  no  man  ever 
failed  to  admit  their  power.  Her  nose  was  small  and 
straight — too  small,  almost,  to  be  easily  blown — and  she 
was  a  perfect  picture  of  proud,  patrician  beauty. 

Arthur  and  Alberta  soon  became  friendly,  but  of 
course  it  was  only  the  friendship  of  a  superior  for  a 
servant — for  Artie  was  only  her  father's  secretary.  One 
evening  the  entire  family  were  in  the  parlor,  when  Bertie 
Cecil,  a  society  young  man  who  sought  in  marriage 
Alberta's  hand,  called.  After  some  desultory  conversa- 
tion, Alberta  asked  Bertie  to  play,  and,  going  to  the 
piano,  he  rendered  Beethoven's  ninth  symphony — that 
beautiful  remedy  for  driving  cats  out  of  the  neighbor- 
hood— in  a  thoroughly  artistic  manner.  Alberta  was  in 
raptures,  but  Mr.  McGuire  did  not  seem  pleased.  Turn- 
ing to  Arthur,  he  said:  "Can  you  not  play?" 

Now  was  our  hero's  chance.  Going  to  the  piano,  he 
struck  a  few  chords  softly,  choosing  that  inexpressibly 
tender  and  melancholy  key — D  flat  minor.  Then  he  ran 
through  a  few  modulations,  and  glided  into  "  The  Skids 
are  Out  To-day."  As  he  sat  there,  the  memory  of  the 
days  when  he  had  sat  before  the  old  familiar  instrument 
in  his  father's  house  came  over  him — the  days  when  he 
might  have  met  this  woman  as  an  equal,  and  have  told 
her  of  the  love  that  was  growing  in  his  heart — and  he 
played  with  a  depth  of  feeling  that  astonished  even  him- 
self. When  he  had  finished,  Alberta  simply  said,  "  Thank 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  89 


you,"  but  the  tone  of  her  voice  was  tender,  and  there 
was  a  suspicious  moisture  in  her  eyes.  Arthur  went  to 
his  room,  bowed  himself  to  his  labor,  and  wrote  on  into 
the  waning  night,  until  his  brain  reeled,  his  eyes  burned, 
the  letters  danced  before .  his  eyes,  and  his  nerveless 
hand  refused  to  hold  the  pen.  Then  he  went  to  his  bed  ; 
but  only  to  dream  of  those  queenly  eyes  and  that  proud 
head,  crowned  with  the  coronal  of  gold-brown  hair. 

The  next  day  Alberta  was  more  friendly,  and  even 
showed  him  a  blue  dog  which  she  had  painted  on  a  tea- 
cup. "Are  you  aesthetic?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  responded  Arthur.  "I'm  a  New-Yorker  by 
birth." 

The  pink  suffusion  of  a  blush  stole  into  her  cheeks  at 
these  words,  but  she  only  said,  "An  rwoir,  Mr.  Ains- 
leigh,"  and  Arthur  responded  in  his  cheery  voice,  "Over- 
the-river-to-you." 

That  night  he  was  again  requested  to  play  the  piano. 
His  selection  was  a  double  song-and-dance  arranged  for 
the  piano  by  Liszt,  and  was  a  bit  of  music  that  Arthur 
loved.  On  that  night  its  sadness  stole  over  his  mind  like 
an  echo  of  his  own  thoughts.  He  forgot  where  he  was, 
who  were  around  him;  he  played  as  his  feelings  swayed 
him,  and  his  music  was  filled  with  the  voice  of  tears.  He 
did  not  remember  himself  or  his  surroundings,  until  the 
old  gentleman's  snore  awoke  him  to  a  knowledge  of  his 
surroundings;  then  he  saw  that  Alberta  had  bent  her 
head  forward  over  the  keys,  and  was  choking  with  a 
storm  of  sobs. 

She  sat  down  at  the  piano,  and  he  stood  beside  her. 
They  played  one  of  Chopin's  nocturnes,  a  soft,  tender 
tone-poem.  As  the  music  ceased,  Arthur  saw  that  Al- 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


berta's  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Almost  without  knowing 
what  he  did,  he  leaned  forward  and  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead.  She  looked  up  at  him  quickly,  with  a  startled 
glance;  then  she  bent  down  again,  and  her  whole  form 
shook  with  sobs. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said;  "I  am  mad;  I  will  go." 

He  turned  to  leave  her,  but  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
arm. 

"Don't  go,"  she  said,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

"You  bid  me  stay?  Alberta,  you  know  that  I  love 
you,  and  you  are  not  offended  ?" 

"  Offended  ! "  she  said,  looking  up  at  him,  with  her 
great  eyes  full  of  tears.  "Oh,  Arthur  !  " 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  pressed  her  to  his  heart. 

Their  lips  met  in  the  first,  long,  passionate  kiss  of  love. 
******* 

When  Arthur  recovered  consciousness  he  was  lying 
near  the  curb-stone,  and  the  cold,  gray  light  of  morning 
was  slowly  stealing  over  the  North  Side.  The  haughty 
pork-packer  had  awakened  at  the  wrong  time. 


THE    MAIDEN'S   GIFT. 

"A  sad  Christmas,  indeed." 

It  was  a  pretty  face,  albeit  stained  with  tears  and  weary 
with  watching,  that  was  raised  from  the  snowy-white  pil- 
low that  lay  upon  one  end  of  the  fauteuil,  as  Beryl 
McCloskey  spoke  these  words. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  91 


As  the  girl  sat  there,  the  firelight  just  touching  the 
disordered  masses  of  bronzed  hair,  and  bringing  into 
strong  relief  with  its  full  flashes  the  pale,  sad  face  and 
slender  form,  the  French  clock  on  the  mantel  struck 
eleven. 

Beryl  knew  by  this  that  it  was  nearly  five  o'clock. 

"  I  wonder  if  there  is  another  girl  in  all  the  wide,  wide 
world  as  miserable  as  I  am? "  she  exclaimed.  "  I,  who 
have  everything  to  make  me  happy — health,  a  pleasant 
home,  loving  parents,  and  everything  that  money  can 
purchase.  And  yet,  I  am  miserable,  oh,  so  miserable!" 

"You  can  never  be  happy,  my  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Mc- 
Closkey,  who  had  stepped  quietly  into  the  room  through 
a  portiere,  "until  you  strive  to  make  other  lives  brighter, 
other  hearts  glad.  It  is  only  when  we  have  brought 
sunshine  into  homes  that  have  been  bleak  and  dreary 
and  desolate  for  the  want  of  it — only  when  we  have 
seen  eyes  that  were  dimmed  with  tears,  sparkling  with 
laughter — that  the  true  meaning  of  happiness  comes  to  us, 
and  it  is  a  revelation  indeed." 

"  You  are  right,  mother,"  said  Beryl,  the  look  of  dis- 
content leaving  her  face  even  as  she  spoke,  "  and  your 
words  have  taught  me  a  lesson  that  I  trust  will  not  soon 
be  forgotten."  And  rising  from  the  fauteuil,  she  stepped 
to  the  dressing-case  and  began  working  the  powder-puff. 

"  Why,  where  are  you  going,  my  darling? "  asked  Mrs. 
McCloskey,  as  Beryl  began  to  exhibit  unequivocal  symp- 
toms of  getting  dressed. 

"To-morrow  you  will  know  all,"  was  the  reply;  and  af- 
ter turning  the  hands  of  the  French  clock  back  seven 

hours,  the  mother  returned  to  her  boudoir. 

******* 


9.2  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


In  a  little  cottage  which  stood  at  the  head  of  Huckle- 
berry Hill,  lived  the  widow  Perkins  and  her  only  child,  a 
daughter.  Pansy  Perkins,  although  born  to  struggle 
with  poverty,  was  endowed  with  a  beauty  of  face  and 
figure  such  as  rarely  falls  to  the  lot  of  any  girl.  Having 
been  eighteen  years  old  for  three  consecutive  summers, 
she  was  just  budding  into  womanhood — just  crossing  the 
boundary  line  upon  one  side  of  which  stands  youth,  with 
rosy  cheeks  and  laughing  eyes,  and  on  the  other  matur- 
ity, with  all  its  mellowed  charms  and  ripened  graces. 
Presently  there  was  a  knock  at  the  Joor,  and  Pansy  an- 
swered it.  The  visitor  was  Beryl  McCloskey,  the  heiress 
of  Brierton  Villa. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  you  to-night,  Pansy,"  she  said, 
"  because  it  seems  to  me  that  to  a  girl  who  is  almost  alone 
in  the  world,  Christmas  time  must  bring  with  it  many 
thoughts  and  recollections  that  are  far  from  pleasant." 

"That  is  true,"  replied  Pansy.  "Two  years  ago  last 
Christmas  I  fell  down  while  skating  and  broke  my 
bustle." 

"And  so,"  said  Beryl,  scarcely  heeding  the  interrup- 
tion, "  I  resolved  that  one  Christmas,  at  least,  should  be 
to  you  a  time  of  happiness,  and  that  is  why  I  have  come 
here  to-night.  You  know  that,  apart  from  my  father's 
fortune,  I  am  rich  in  my  own  right,  and  you  must  not 
refuse  my  gift,  which  you  will  find  in  this  little  package. 
Always  be  kind  to  your  mother,  Pansy,  and  try  to  make 
her  life  pleasant."  And  turning  Beryl  was  about  to 
leave. 

"  But  what  is  your  present  ?  "  asked  Pansy. 

"I  have,"  said  Beryl,  smiling  sweetly  as  she  spoke, 
"given  you  my  second-best  bang." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  93 


THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY. 

A  poet,  young  and  hearty, 

Went  merrily  his  way 
Aloft  unto  the  sanctum  of 

An  Editor  so  gray. 

"  I  have  me  here  an  epic," 

Remarked  the  laureate. 
"Which  I  would  like  to  have  you  print 

At  some  convenient  date." 
*  *  *  * 

The  poet's  lovely  widow 

Strews  flowers  o'er  his  tomb; 
The  wily  Editor  still  keeps 

A  bull-dog  in  his  room. 


UNDER  DIFFERENT  CIRCUMSTANCES. 

Two  sat  down  in  the  morning  time, 

One  to  sing  and  one  to  spin; 
All  the  men  listened  to  the  song  sublime, 

But  no  one  listened  to  the  dull  wheel's  din. 

The  world  has  forgotten  the  singer's  name — 
Her  rose  is  faded,  her  songs  are  old; 

But  far  o'er  the  ocean  the  spinner's  fame 
Yet  is  blazoned  in  lines  of  gold. 

Two  sat  down  in  the  evening  time, 

One  to  eat  and  one  to  pay; 
The  cream  was  good,  and  the  freezer  she  cleaned, 

Although  the  bottom  was  far  away. 

The  world  has  forgotten  the  young  man's  name — 
His  cash  is  minus,  his  heart  doth  ache; 

But  far  o'er  the  ocean  the  ice-cream  girl 
Says  to  herself  .   "I  take  the  cake." 


94 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


WHAT  RUPERT  WANTED. 

"Come  hither,  Beryl." 

Stuyvesant  Nutwood  spoke  in  kindly  tones  to  his 
daughter,  and  yet  the  girl  noticed,  or  imagined  that  she 
did,  a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice;  but,  thinking  it  was  due 
to  the  involuntary  loosening  of  his  false  teeth,  gave  the 
matter  no  further  attention.  She  crossed  the  room  to 
where  her  father  was  sitting  in  his  great  arm-chair  beside 
the  window,  and  as  the  sunlight  from  the  western  sky 
streamed  in  upon  him,  falling  like  a  golden  benediction 
over  the  gray  head,  and  seeming  to  smooth  away  the 
wrinkles  in  the  rugged,  honest  face,  she  felt  how  blessed 
indeed  she  was  to  have  so  kind  and  loving  a  parent — one 
whose  only  ambition  was  to  make  her  life  peaceful  and  hap- 
py and  see  that  care  and  sorrow  were  ever  warded  from  her 
by  watchful  eyes  and  strong  arms.  Twenty  years  before, 
when  Beryl's  mother  was  dying,  she  had  placed  the  little 
baby  girl,  whose  entrance  into  this  world  had  been  the 
cause  of  her  death,  in  Stuyvesant  Nutwood's  arms,  and 
there,  with  the  icy  breath  of  death  on  her  brow,  had 
asked  him  to  guard  the  young  life  tenderly,  to  shield  it 
from  harm,  and  he  had  promised  that  through  his  act  no 
sorrow  should  ever  cloud  their  daughter's  life. 

Mrs.  Stuyvesant  then  died. 

And  so,  Beryl  had  grown  up  on  her  parent's  farm  al- 
most without  society,  but  not  without  education,  for 
every  year  she  had  attended  the  seminary  at  Acornville, 
four  miles  away,  and  in  her  eighteenth  year  had  gradu- 
ated with  all  the  honors,  and  a  percale  dress.  And  then 
she  had  gone  back  to  the  farm  again,  but  somehow  her 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  95 


life  there  was  not  as  satisfactory  as  before.  In  spite  of 
all  her  father's  kindness,  and  the  motherly  care  of  Aunt 
Ruth  Higgins,  a  widowed  sister  of  her  father,  who  had 
been  his  housekeeper  for  fifteen  years,  there  were  times 
when  Beryl  felt  a  sense  of  ennui,  mixed  with  an  indefin- 
able feeling  of  restlessness,  that  would  cause  her  to 
wander  aimlessly  around  the  place  in  a  reverie  until  re- 
called to  things  of  this  world  by  stepping  on  her  ankle. 
But  though  she  strove  to  conceal,  even  from  herself,  the 
real  cause  of  this  feeling,  her  heart  would  ever  and  anon 
give  a  great  throb  as  she  thought  of  Rupert  Hollings- 
worth,  a  young  man  with  whom  she  had  become  ac- 
quainted while  attending  the  seminary,  and  who  was  now 
a  struggling  lawyer  in  a  western  town.  There  had  been 
no  words  of  love  between  them,  but  on  the  day  Rupert 
graduated  they  had  met  for  the  last  time,  and,  standing 
beneath  the  shade  of  a  grand  old  oak  that  guarded  the 
entrance  to  the  college  campus,  Rupert  had  taken  Beryl's 
hand  in  his,  and  said  to  her,  while  his  dark-brown  eyes 
seemed  looking  into  her  very  soul:  "You  will  not  forget 
me  entirely,  Miss  Stuyvesant?" 

"I  shall  never  forget  you,"  she  replied,  with  grave 
earnestness,  "as  long  as  I  live." 

He  had  once  stepped  on  her  corn. 

When  Beryl  had  crossed  the  room,  her  father  motioned 
her  to  a  seat  by  his  side,  and  as  she  cuddled  up  cozily 
on  a  hassock,  and,  placing  her  arms  upon  her  knees, 
looked  up  in  his  face  with  a  wondering  expression  .in  her 
great  blue  eyes,  Stuyvesant  Nutwood  felt  a  great  thrill  of 
sorrow  in  the  knowledge  that  one  day  this  beautiful  girl, 
with  all  her  wealth  of  love  and  bandoline,  would  leave 
him  forever — go  out  into  the  world  as  the  wife  of  one 


96  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


whose  every  smile  would   be  to  her  a  morsel  of    joy, 
whose  every  loving  word  a  source  of  sweet  content. 

"  I  have  received  a  letter  from  Rupert  Hollingsworth, 
Beryl,"  he  said. 

The  girl  gave  a  sudden  start,  and  a  wave  of  crim- 
son swept  over  the  pure,  sweet  face,  but  she  did  not 
speak. 

"Can  you  not  guess,"  he  continued  "what  the  purport 
of  his  letter  is?" 

Beryl  could  no  longer  look  in  her  father's  face.  She 
knew  full  well  why  Rupert  Hollingsworth  had  written. 
His  frank,  honest  nature,  and  the  broad  culture  of  his 
mind,  caused  him  to  take  such  a  noble,  lofty  view  of  duty 
that  he  would  not  even  address  the  one  whom  he  loved 
most  dearly,  and  to  win  whose  heart  was  the  great  and 
overpowering  ambition  of  his  life,  until  he  had  first 
gained  her  father's  consent  to  such  action.  He  had  gone 
away  only  two  years  before  in  all  the  vigor  of  his  glad 
manhood,  and  his  splendid  talents  had  gained  for  him 
success  where  others  had  failed.  And  now,  crowned 
with  the  laurel  wreath  of  victory,  he  had  written  to  her 
father  for  permission  to  urge  his  suit  with  her.  She  knew 
all  this  full  well,  and  yet  when  her  father  asked  her  the 
question  to  which  her  heart  had  already  given  answer, 
she  did  not  reply. 

'You  could  never  guess,  little  one,"  said  Stuyvesant 
Nutwood,  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  "why  Rupert  has 
written.  Do  you  think  you  could?" 

A  deeper  blush  overspread  the  pretty  face. 

"But  I  will  tell  you,"  he  continued,  "because  you  were 
at  college  together.  Still,  perhaps  I  had  better  be  silent." 
And  again  the  laughing  light  came  into  her  father's  eyes. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  97 


"Tell  me,  papa,"  whispered  Beryl,  no  longer  able  to 
conceal  her  eagerness,  "why  he  has  written." 

"He  wants  something,"  was  the  reply.  "Can  you  not 
guess  what  it  is?" 

Every  fibre  of  Beryl's  being  is  throbbing  with  expect- 
ancy now.  The  sun  has  passed  from  sight,  and  great 
bands  of  rosy  light  that  stream  up  from  below  the  hor- 
izon's rim  cast  a  strange  halo  over  the  silent  earth.  Beryl 
feels  the  solemn  influence  of  the  twilight  hour,  but  no 
word  comes  from  her  lips. 

"Can  you  not  guess,"  repeats  her  father,  "what  Rupert 
Hollingsworth  desires?" 

For  an  instant  she  does  not  reply.  To  answer  the 
question  in  the  affirmative  would  seem  bold  and  forward, 
and  yet  can  she  deny,  even  to  herself,  a  knowledge  of 
what  Rupert  desires?  So,  she  simply  says  to  her  father: 
"Tell  me  what  he  wants." 

Bending  tenderly  over  his  daughter,  Stuyvesant  Nut- 
wood whispers,  with  infinite  pathos,  in  her  ear: 

"Twenty-five  dollars  to  get  home  with." 


IMPROVED  POETRY. 

"  Which  editor  do  I  wish  to  see? "  asked  a  young  man 
who  was  smoking  a  cigarette  and  wore  a  hat  about  the 
size  and  shape  of  a  table-spoon,  as  he  opened  the  door 
of  the  editorial  rooms  one  April  afternoon  and  gazed 
about  him  in  an  inquiring  way. 

••  Well,"  said  the  trotting-horse  reporter,  ceasing  for  an 
7 


98  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


instant  his  labors  in  connection  with  a  sketch  of  the  life 
and  career  of  Parole,  "  you  look  as  if  you  really  ought 
to  see  the  editor  with  the  club,  but  probably  I  am  mis- 
taken. As  a  general  friend  of  humanity,  however,  I 
would  advise  you  to  shoot  the  torch." 

"  Do  what,  sir? "  inquired  the  young  man. 

"  Shoot  the  torch — put  out  that  dizzy  little  street 
pipe." 

"  Do  you  mean  this  cigarette? "  asked  the  visitor. 

"  That's  it,"  was  the  reply.  "  You  just  drop  that  thing, 
or  else  sherry  yourself  round  the  corner.  We  get  enough 
cigarette  smoke  from  young  ducks  that  come  around 
here  Saturdays  with  society  items." 

The  young  man  threw  away  the  cigarette.  "  I  wanted 
to  know,"  he  said,  "  who  it  would  be  proper  for  me  to  see 
in  regard  to  a  poem." 

"  Oh,  it  would  be  proper  enough  for  you  to  see  any- 
body," replied  the  biographer  of  Parole.  "  There  is 
nothing  inherently  improper  in  a  poem — except  the  fact 
of  its  having  been  written.  I  suppose  your  verses  are 
something  about  '  The  spring  is  coming,  Myrtle  dear,  O 
meet  me  by  the  creek/  or  something  like  that — some- 
thing slushy  and  sloppy,  that  jibes  in  naturally  with  wet 
weather  and  muddy  roads?" 

"Well,  not  exactly,"  said  the  poet.  "But  perhaps  I 
might  read  it  to  you?" 

"  Perhaps  you  might  if  I  were  chained  to  a  post  and 
couldn't  get  away,  but  not  otherwise.  I  am  too  sweetly 
fly,  too  weirdly  on  to  your  racket  to  allow  myself  to  be 
played  for  a  Chinaman.  You  will  have  to  hunt  up  some- 
body with  a  more  Macoupin  County  look  in  his  clear 
blue  eye  if  you  want  that  poem  listened  to.  I  am  sorry, 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  99 


my  winsome  chump,  but  you  are  bowling  on  the  wrong 
alley."  And  the  life  of  Parole  was  again  resumed. 

"  I  wish  you  would  let  me  read  this  poem  to  you,"  said 
the  child  of  genius  in  the  doorway.  "There  is  only  one 
stanza." 

"Well,  cut  her  loose,"  was  the  reply. 

The  poet  produced  a  sheet  of  paper  and  read  as 
follows: 

"  Meet  me  in  the  glen,  dear, 

Where  the  moonbeams  bright 
On  the  nodding  daisies 

Cast  their  silver  light. 
Pluck  for  me  a  flower — 

Twine  it  in  your  hair — 
I  shall  know  you  love  me 

If  I  see  it  there." 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  asked  the  poet,  as  he  finished 
reading. 

"Oh,  it's  good  enough,!  suppose,"  was  the  reply,  "but 
we've  got  too  much  daisy  and  glen  poetry  on  hand  now. 
And  then,  all  that  kind  of  verse  is  only  a  sort  of  literary 
bran-mash,  after  all.  Now,  no  young  man  with  a  head 
as  big  as  a  pin  would  go  around  asking  girls  to  meet 
him  in  a  glen  when  the  moon  is  up.  That's  no  way  to 
act,  if  you  really  want  to  lassoo  the  affections  of  an  inno- 
cent maiden,  because  when  a  girl  has  eaten  a  good,  square 
supper  she  doesn't  feel  like  tramping  around  a  glen  and 
picking  flowers  to  stick  in  her  hair.  Any  such  scheme 
as  that  would  rumple  up  her  bangs  too  much,  and  like  as 
not  tear  her  invisible  net.  And  then,  there  aren't  any  glens 
around  Chicago — glens  flourish  best  in  the  country,  where 
the  cows  go  to  sleep  on  the  sidewalk,  so  you  can  fall 
over  them  when  you  come  home  late.  Now,  I  suppose 
this  poem  of  yours  was  intended  for  the  eye  of  some  par- 


loo  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


ticular  young  lady,  some  Cook  County  Juliet  whose  papa 
keeps  a  soulless  dog  that  declines  to  share  the  front  yard 
with  you.  Isn't  that  about  the  size  of  it? "  And  the  horse 
reporter  winked  vigorously  at  the  poet. 

"Well,  yes;  that  is,  I—" 

"Oh,  I  know  all  about  it,"  interrupted  St.  Julien's 
friend.  "  You  are  a  little  bashful  about  it — a  kind  of 
Eighteenth  Ward  maidenly  reserve.  Well,  that's  a  credit 
to  you — I  would  give  seven  dollars  if  I  could  blush  like 
that.  But  you  are  on  the  wrong  tack.  Quit  writing  to  this 
girl  about  glens  and  moonlight  and  roses.  If  you  must 
express  your  sentiments  in  verse,  whoop  her  up  a  chanson 
in  a  style  she  can  understand;  something  like  this,  for 
instance: 

'  Meet  me  on  the  corner 

Where  they  sell  ice-cream; 
Life  shall  be  for  you,  love, 
Like  a  blissful  dream. 

'  Cling  to  me,  my  darling, 
As  vine  hugs  the  oak, 
And  when  you're  done  eating 
I  shall  be  dead  broke. ' 

"Now  that  ought  to  land  her,"  said  the  horse  reporter, 
"  because,  as  a  rule,  girls  are  very  partial  to  pathos  and 
ice-cream  mixed — you  can  bet  on  that." 

"Can  I?"  said  the  poet.    "Well,  I'll  try  your  plan,  sir." 

"  That's  the  daisy  racket  to  catch  a  girl,"  said  the  horse 

reporter,  in  cheery  tones.    "  Love  and  shady  glens  are  all 

right,  but  when  it  comes  down  to  business  I  want  a  pool 

on  the  young  man  that  buys  ice-cream." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  101 


WHAT  HE  COULD  STAND. 

"I  want  to  see  an  editor,"  said  a  slim  young  man  who 
wore  very  light  pants,  a  hat  about  the  size  and  shape  of 
a  peanut-shell,  and  a  collar  that  seemed  to  be  always 
reaching  for  his  chin  without  quite  getting  there,  as  he 
opened  the  door  yesterday  afternoon. 

"  If  it's  anything  about  a  delightful  reception  was  held 
last  Thursday  evening  at  the  residence  of  our  well-known 
fellow-citizen  John  Smith,  or  Miss  Beatrice  Perkins  will 
spend  the  autumn  at  Mukwanago  you'll  have  to  take  it 
into  the  other  room,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "because 
the  society  editor  is  out  editing  a  chicken-fight  this  after- 
noon, and  the  orders  are  to  turn  all  the  social  gruel  over 
to  the  janitor.  To-morrow  is  window-cleaning-day." 

"I  came  up  to  see,"  said  the  young  man,  "whether  one 
of  the  editors  would  have  any  objection  to  giving  me 
some  advice  on  a  matter  in  which  I  am  deeply  interested. 
I  may  say  that — " 

"You're  in  love,  aren't  you?"  asked  the  horse  reporter. 
"I  know  you  are,  anyhow,"  he  continued,  without  giving 
the  visitor  a  chance  to  answer.  "  There  is  a  sort  of  ner- 
vous, hesitating,  cat-found-in-the-wrong-back-yard  air 
about  your  actions  that  gives  you  away  at  once.  What's 
the  trouble?  Girl  gone  back  on  you?" 

"I  think  not,"  replied  the  young  man.  "I  can  not 
believe  that  any  one  has  usurped  my  place  in  her 
affections." 

"Done  what?" 

"I  say  I  do  not  believe  her  love  has  faltered?" 

"You  mustn't  have  such  a  Boston  way  of  talking,"  said 


102  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


the  horse  reporter,  "or  we  shan't  be  able  to  get  along 
well.  The  girl  hasn't  weakened,  you  say?" 

"No." 

"How's  tne  old  man?     Have  you  corralled  him?" 

"Do  you  mean  the  young  lady's  father?"  asked  the 
visitor,  a  look  of  mild  astonishment  passing  over  his 
countenance. 

"Certainly  I  do,"  responded  the  reporter.  "How  do 
you  loom  up  in  the  parental  horizon?" 

"The  father  of  the  young  lady  does  not  object  to  me," 
was  the  reply. 

"Well,  then,  what's  wrong.  You  have  the  girl  on 
your  side,  and  her  father  is  agreeable.  It  looks  to  me 
like  a  walk-over  for  the  money." 

"I  hardly  think  you  understand  the  matter,"  said  the 
young  man.  "My  trouble  is  that  the  young  lady  does 
not  seem  fitted  to  become  the  wife  of  a  man  who  wants  a 
helpmeet.  She  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  practical  ideas 
regarding  life." 

"Sort  of  a  girly-girl,  isn't  she?"  said  the  horse  repor- 
ter; "always  talking  about  the  ideality  of  the  ideal,  and 
all  such  mush  as  that,  and  wants  to  know  if  the  silvered 
pencilings  of  moonlight  among  the  verdure-clad  trees  are 
not  weirdly  beautiful.  I've  seen  that  kind.  They're 
daisies — to  keep  away  from." 

"  I  think  you  have  the  right  idea,"  replied  the  visitor, 
"although  your  style  of  expressing  it  is  somewhat 
crude." 

"  It's  a  pretty  tough  case,"  said  the  aamirer  of  Maud  S. 
"  These  girls  that  are  so  eternally  gesthetical  are  generally 
first-class  feeders,  though — I've  noticed  that.  The  silvery 
moonbeams  never  seem  to  take  away  their  appetite.  I 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  103 


guess  you'd  better  try  the  reckless-dissipation  racket — 
that  ought  to  fetch  her." 

"  Try  the  what?  " 

"The  reckless-dissipation  racket.  The  next  time  you 
call  on  Myrtle,  or  whatever  her  name  is,  you  want  to  plant 
yourself  on  the  sofa  with  a  sort  of  weary,  man-been-read- 
ing-a-Milwaukee-paper  look,  and  put  your  hand  up  to 
your  forehead.  Then,  when  she  asks  what's  the  matter, 
you  say  that  her  manner  of  late  has  been  so  cold  that  it 
must  be  that  she  does  not  love  you,  and  that  the  thought 
of  losing  her  was  so  maddening  that  you  have  been  indulg- 
nig  in  reckless  dissipation.  If  she  doesn't  sling  herself 
around  some  then,  and  say  that  she  will  never,  never 
leave  you,  and  how  could  you  ever  doubt  her  love,  and 
all  that,  I'm  no  judge."  And  the  horse  reporter  assumed 
a  Benjamin  Franklin  look. 

"I  will  act  on  your  suggestion,"  said  the  visitor,  taking 
up  his  kiss-me-quick-before-I-go  hat,  and  looking  out 
in  a  friendly  way  over  the  high-water  collar.  "How 
much  dissipation  do  you  think  I  ought  to  indulge  in  to 
produce  the  proper  effect?" 

"Well,"  replied  the  horse  reporter,  "I  should  imagine 
that  if  you  were  to  play  about  two  games  of  billiards  and 
drink  a  strong  lemonade,  it  would  constitute  for  you  the 
wildest  kind  of  a  debauch." 


104  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


SONGS  FOR  THE  FIRESIDE. 

Little  Mabel  Merton, 

Gliding  o'er  the  ice, 
Says  unto  her  lover: 

"  It  is  just  too  nice." 

Twenty  minutes  later 

Birdie  starts  for  home; 
Busted  is  her  bustle, 

And  her  tortoise  comb. 


Husband's  lost  his  collar-button, 
Hear  the  dear  old  creature  swear1 

I  am  in  the  other  bed-room 
Doing  up  my  nut-brown  hair. 


George  has  got  his  papa's  fish-pole 
On  this  sunny  Sabbath  day. 

His  return  will  be  the  signal 
For  a  woodshed  matinee. 


Hickory,  dickory,  dock, 
Mabel  had  walked  but  a  block; 

An  orange  peel 

Under  her  heel 
Showed  the  red  stripes  in  her  sock. 


A  foolish  young  man  in  Cohoes 
Played  poker  whenever  he  chose; 

His  conservative  brother 

Is  living  in  clover, 
While  Jim  wears  his  last  summer's  clothes. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  105 


A  bashful  young  man  in  Wyoming 
Was  telling  his  love  in  the  gloaming, 

While  saying  ta-ta, 

Up  came  her  papa — 
O'er  his  boot  the  young  man  was  soon  roaming. 


The  red  leaves  of  Autumn  are  falling, 
Cold  sweeps  the  rude  wind  o'er  the  plain; 

Soon  Mabel  and  George  will  be  holding 
The  parlor  arm-chair  down  again. 


Hickory,  dickory,  dock, 
Take  your  girl  out  for  a  walk; 

She'll  eat  ice-cream. 

And  suddenly  seem 
To  want  more,  ere  you  get  'round  the  block. 


A  bashful  young  man  in  Cohoes 
Couldn't  muster  up  pluck  to  propose; 

He  finally  did. 

But  his  young  face  he  hid, 
And  turned  red  as  a  new  pair  of  hose. 


A  lady  in  Carondolet 

Heard  her  husband  say  that  he  would  bet 

Forty  dollars  to  ten 

There  never  had  been 
A  mile  in  2:13  made  yet. 

She  sent  her  young  brother  around, 
Who  quickly  the  other  chap  downed, 
Whacked  up  with  his  sister, 
Then  pleasantly  kissed  her, 
Saying:  "  Man-,  you  bet  we're  all  sound." 


106  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS 


Little  Birdie  Blue-Eyes 

Sitting  in  the  sun, 
While  her  older  brother 

Fooleth  with  the  gun. 

Soon  a  loud  explosion 
Wakes  the  echoing  wood; 

All  that's  left  of  Birdie 
Is  her  worsted  hood. 


A  dashing  young  man  in  St.  Paul 
Loved  a  maiden  exceedingly  tall; 
Two  nights  in  the  week 
He  would  muster  up  cheek 
And  make  the  fair  creature  a  call. 

One  day  her  pa  shouldered  his  gun 

And  went  to  discover  the  son 

Of  a  sea-cook  who  would 
On  a  young  heart  intrude 

And  say  he  was  only  in  fun. 

He  met  the  young  man  in  a  store, 

And  blew  him  out  through  the  front  door; 

A  father-in-law  jury 

Let  him  off  in  a  hurry, 
But  the  boys  shunned  that  girl  evermore. 


Get  out  mamma's  rubber  boots 

And  a  hose; 
She  will  wash  the  kitchen  windows, 

Though  half  froze. 
Do  not  let  her  catch  a  cold, 
For  our  parent's  getting  old ; 
We  don't  want  her  to  be  talking 

Through  her  nose. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  107 


Tie  her  head  up  in  a  towel, 
Let  her  put  on  father's  blouse; 

Send  the  children  to  the  country — 
Mamma's  ready  to  clean  house. 

A  wicked  old  man  in  Monee 

On  an  orange  peel  stepped,  and  then  he, 
With  a  wild,  ringing  whoop, 
Flew  off  the  front  stoop, 

Saying,  " !"  with  a  very  big  D. 


A  bustle  and  a  bang 

On  the  arm-chair  gently  hang, 

The  toothbrush  on  the  soap  dish  put  away; 
Some  pearl-powder  on  the  stand, 
Clocked  hose  in  her  little  hand — 

Mabel's  getting  ready  for  the  matinee. 


A  bicycle  fiend  in  Momence 

(Who,  of  course,  didn't  have  any  sense) 
Tried  to  make  his  machine 
Go  up-stairs;  but,  I  ween, 

He  is  now  in  the  beautiful  hence. 


"EAST  LYNNE" RECONSTRUCTED. 

"I  saw  you  at  the  theatre  last  evening,"  said  the  dra- 
matic critic  to  the  horse  reporter;  "you  don't  often  favor 
dramatic  representations  with  your  presence,  do  you?" 

u  No,"  was  the  reply.  "As  a  rule,  my  glances  into  the 
domain  of  Thespis  have  been  infrequent,  and  since  the 


io8  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


death  of  Longfellow  I  have  kept  more  aloof  from  the 
giddy  throng  than  ever — mortuos  semper  venera,  you 
know." 

"  I  think  you  are  laboring  under  a  misapprehension  re- 
garding the  party  who  died,"  said  the  dramatic  critic. 
"It  was  not  the  horse,  but  the  poet." 

"Oh!  I  know  that  well  enough,"  replied  the  friend  of 
Maud  S.  "  But  nobody  ever  heard  of  the  poet  until  the 
horse  beat  the  mile  and  three-quarter  record,  so  we  con- 
cluded to  honor  his  memory,  although  there  are  plenty 
of  good  poets,  while  first-class  race-horses  are  scarce." 

"  You  seemed  to  take  a  good  deal  of  interest  in  the 
play  last  night,  though,"  said  the  critic.  "  Your  party 
had  a  private  box." 

" Is  that  what  you  call  that  place?" 

"Why,  certainly." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  told  me,  because  we  were  a  little 
puzzled  about  it.  You  see,  a  lot  of  us  fellows  concluded 
to  go  together,  and  one  fellow,  he  marched  up  to  the  pa- 
trol judge's  place  out  in  the  front  hall  of  the  theatre — ' 

"You  probably  mean  the  ticket  office,"  suggested  the 
dramatic  critic. 

"I  guess  likely  I  do,"  was  the  reply;  "but,  anyhow, 
he  went  up  there  and  says  to  the  man,  '  I  want  a  box-stall 
for  five,  with  plenty  of  hay  on  the  floor  and  no  leaks  in 
the  roof.  The  track  superintendent — 

"  Ticket-seller,"  interjected  the  critic. 

"Well,  whoever  he  was,  he  said  fifteen  dollars  was  the 
price,  and  when  one  of  the  boys  asked  him  if  there  was 
any  chance  to  declare  out  before  the  race  started  by  pay- 
ing half  forfeit,  he  only  smiled,  and  said  no.  And  then 
another  young  man,  he  tore  the  receipt  for  entrance 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


money  in  two  pieces,  kept  one  of  them  and  opened  a 
door.  We  went  in,  and  a  third  young  man  made  a  move 
like  he  wanted  to  get  the  other  half  of  that  ticket.  But  you 
bet  he  didn't.  We  hadn't  been  through  the  Michigan  cir- 
cuit five  seasons  without  being  pretty  fly.  We  let  him  look 
at  it,  though,  and  he  scored  us  around  the  outside  of 
the  track  and  into  the  box-stall  where  you  saw  us.  I 
thought  it  was  the  judges'  stand,  at  first,  but  concluded 
I  was  wrong.  Then  we  watched  the  play,  and  of  all  the 
no-account,  slobbery  plays  I  ever  saw,  that  one  sells  first 
choice.  When  we  arrived,  there  was  a  bed  on  the  stage 
and  a  little  boy  in  it.  He  was  a  nice,  clean  little  boy, 
but  I  couldn't  see  much  drama  about  that,  and  the  big 
print  bills  on  the  fences  said  in  three  different  colored 
letters  that  this  was  '  an  emotional  drama.'  Pretty  soon 
a  woman  came  along.  She  had  goggles  on — same  as  the 
boys  wear  when  they  are  going  to  drive  a  slow  horse  on 
a  dusty  day.  She  scores  alongside  of  the  bed  and  flops 
down  on  her  knees.  '  Blind  staggers,'  I  says  to  one  of 
the  boys,  but  he  said  no;  she  was  only  acting.  It's 
a  good  thing  he  explained,  because  1  was  just  going 
to  ask  if  there  was  a  veterinary  in  the  audience,  and  have 
her  bled — you  know  that's  the  boss  remedy  for  blind 
staggers." 

"I  presume  so,"  said  the  critic,  "but  about  the  play." 
"  Well,  this  woman  she  began  kissing  the  little  boy, 
and  hee-hawed  around  him  a  good  deal.  The  boy  said 
his  own  dear  mamma  was  dead,  and  was  going  on  to  give 
quite  an  account  of  his  life  and  career,  when  the  woman 
pulled  off  the  goggles,  snatched  the  kid  out  of  the  bed, 
and  said  she  was  his  own  dear  mother.  I  guess  she  must 
have  yanked  him  around  a  little  too  gay,  for  when  she 


no  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


was  done  kissing  him  he  was  dead.  '  I  have  killed  me 
cheeild,'  she  said,  and  put  him  to  bed  again.  Then  the 
curtain  fell.  'Cheerful  play,  this,'  I  says  to  one  of  the 
boys.  'Great  drama,'  says  he, — '  woman  heaving  a  sick 
child  around  like  it  was  a  stick  of  cordwood  she  was  try- 
ing to  shoulder.'  Well,  pretty  quick  the  curtain  went  up 
again,  and  there  was  the  woman  lying  in  the  same  bed  that 
little  Tommy  Cold  Toes — or  whatever  his  name  was — had 
just  died  in.  She  was  pretty  sick,  and  mumblin'  something 
to  herself.  Then  a  man  came  in.  He  had  patent  leather 
shoes  on,  so  I  knew  he  was  an  actor.  'Great  God!  Isa- 
bel, is  this  you? '  he  says.  She  said  it  was  her,  and  then 
they  jawed  awhile  about  her  having  left  him.  Then  she 
said  she  was  dying.  About  this  time  I  began  to  weaken 
a  little  myself,  thinking  maybe  it  was  pink-eye  or  sewer- 
gas,  or  something  that  might  nip  the  balance  of  us  before 
the  evening  was  over,  but  concluded  to  trot  the  race  out, 
anyhow.  Finally  the  woman  said,  slow  and  feeble-like, 
'I  want  to  see  Lucy.'  Well,  of  course  I  knew  that  Lucy 
died  five  years  ago,  just  after  she  had  her  second  colt, 
and  I  says  to  myself,  '  This  woman  is  loony;  the  pink-eye 
has  got  her,  sure.'  But  just  then  out  shoots  the  little 
boy  that  died  about  ten  minutes  before.  He  had  girl's 
clothes  on — he  was  Lucy.  The  woman  slammed  herself 
around  in  the  bed  for  awhile  and  died.  Then  the  cur- 
tain went  down  and  the  people  began  to  leave.  Our 
crowd  never  moved.  Finally,  a  fellow  came  around  and 
said  we  had  better  go.  '  Not  much,'  says  I,  'we  may  have 
seen  the  mother  and  one  of  the  children  die,  and  we  are 
bound  to  sit  here  until  the  old  man  is  attacked,  if  it  takes 
all  night.'  But  the  usher  said  there  wouldn't  be  any 
more  drama  that  evening,  and  so  we  went  away." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  in 


"  It  was  evidently  '  East  Lynne '  that  you  saw,"  said 
the  dramatic  critic,  "  and  a  great  many  people  consider 
it  a  fine  play." 

"They  do,  eh?  Well,  in  that  case  a  great  many  people 
ought  to  have  their  heads  overhauled  and  then  screwed  on 
again.  Don't  talk  to  me  about  a  'powerful  drama'  with 
nary  a  song  and  dance  in  it."  And  the  horse  reporter 
retired  in  disgust. 


"  L'ASSOMMOIR." 

Fifine  was  a  child  of  misfortune.  Born  in  poverty 
and  Rat  alley,  and  raised  in  rags  and  vice,  it  is  no  won- 
der that  at  thirteen  she  was  the  wildest  of  the  noisy  lot 
of  reckless  girls  that  sewed  the  hind  legs  on  flannel  ele- 
phants that  the  children  delight  to  play  with,  in  a  great 
square  building  in  a  remote  part  of  Paris.  Trade  in  a 
thickly-populated  city  is  a  great  monster,  with  the  arms 
of  an  octopus  and  the  maw  of  a  shark.  It  stretches  out 
its  myriad  tentacles  in  all  directions,  each  one  coming 
back  well  laden  to  the  central  mouth,  with  as  much  cer- 
tainty as  the  unfortunate  vessel  once  within  the  dread 
circle  of  the  Norwegian  maelstrom  is  drawn  round  and 
round  in  a  wild  waltz  that  can  only  end  in  its  being 
plunged  into  the  gaping  vortex  that  seethes  and  hisses 
in  very  joy  as  its  prey  disappears.  When  Gervaise, 
Fifine's  mother,  was  a  little  girl,  she  too  sewed  on  the 
hind  legs  of  elephants,  but  it  was  then  a  trade  at  which 
she  gained  nearly  two  francs  a  day.  At  eighteen,  she 


1 1 2  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


had  been  married  by  the  Cur&  Deauchery  to  Pierre 
Giteau,  an  honest,  hard-working  young  man.  Six  months 
after  the  ceremony,  Fifine  was  born.  The  neighborhood 
gossips  laughed  and  wagged  their  heads  wisely  enough 
when  Big  Eliza,  who  sold  shrimps  on  the  corner  of  the 
alley,  had  told  them  the  news.  Pierre  did  not  laugh. 
He  kissed  Gervaise  tenderly,  as  she  lay  in  the  little  cot 
by  the  window.  Just  as  his  lips  touched  hers,  the  rays 
of  the  setting  sun  came  through  the  glass  and  fell  on 
the  mother  and  her  child. 

"  Look  !  "  said  the  midwife,  "she  is  bathed  in  a  golden 
flood." 

"  Do  not  let  her  bathe,"  said  Pierre.  He  was  a  true 
Frenchman.  In  a  little  while  he  went  out,  saying  noth- 
ing to  the  woman,  who  eyed  him  curiously. 

"Can  it  be  possible  that  he  does  not  know?" 
said  Virginie,  a  woman  who  chewed  snuff,  and  had 
once  been  in  the  hands  of  the  gens  d'armes  for  say- 
ing that  Robespierre  was  no  sucker,  if  he  did  finally  get 
licked. 

"Some  men  will  never  tumble,"  responded  an  old  hag 
who  fascinated  rats  by  smiling  at  them,  and  sold  their 
skins  to  glove-makers. 

The  evening  passed,  but  Pierre  did  not  return.  Just  as 
the  clock  struck  twelve,  his  heavy  and  uncertain  step  was 
heard  on  the  stairs.  Gervaise  started  up  In  bed  and  lis- 
tened. Presently  the  door  opened  and  he  came  in.  One 
glance  told  everything.  He  was  drunk.  Advancing 
unsteadily  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  he  placed  upon  a  little 
table  a  pitcher.  "  Here  is  some  beer,"  he  said,  and  fell 
in  a  drunken  stupor.  Gervaise  looked  in  the  pitcher. 
"He  has  not  deceived  me,"  she  said;  "it  is  beer.  After 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  113 


drinking  it,  she  said  to  herself.  "  Pierre  loves  me,"  and, 
turning  her  face  to  the  wall,  she  slept. 

When  she  awakened  in  the  morning  Pierre  had  already 
risen,  and  was  looking  into  the  empty  pitcher. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  beer  last  night? "  asked  Ger- 
vaise. 

"At  the  L'Assommoir  saloon,"  said  Pierre. 

"Get  some  more,"  said  Gervaise. 

Pierre  went  out  with  the  pitcher.  From  that  moment 
he  was  the  slave  of  the  still. 

When  Fifine  was  sixteen,  she  met  one  day,  on  her  way 
to  the  place  where  she  sewed  hind  legs  on  flannel  ele- 
phants, a  man  whom  she  had  never  before  seen. 

"Would  you  like  to  live  with  me,  and  have  fine 
clothes?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  answered  Fifine,  putting  her  hand  in  his.  That 
night  she  did  not  come  home.  Two  weeks  later  she  was 
driven  through  Rat  alley  in  a  carriage.  No  one  knew  her. 
She  had  been  washed.  "I  am  Fifine,"  she  said  to  her 
mother,  and  laughed  mockingly  as  the  poor  woman 
pleaded  with  her  to  return.  Then  she  drove  away. 

That  night  Pierre  went  for  a  pitcher  of  beer,  as  usual. 
The  cat  was  purring  on  the  landing  of  the  long  flight  of 
stairs  that  led  from  the  room  of  Pierre  and  Gervaise  to 
the  street  below.  Pierre  stepped  on  the  cat,  and  it  went 
down  stairs  with  him.  When  they  reached  the  bottom 
Pierre  was  dead.  The  cat  still  purred.  Gervaise  heard 
the  unusual  noise,  and  ran  to  the  door.  A  piece  of 
orange  peel  lay  on  the  landing.  Gervaise  stepped  on  it. 
With  a  wild  whoop,  she  flew  through  the  air,  and  landed 
on  a  young  girl  who  was  walking  along  the  street.  It 
was  Fifine.  Gervaise  weighed  two  hundred  pounds. 

8 


114  LA  BESIDE  M  USING  S. 


There  was  a  triple  funeral  the  next  day. 
L'Assommoir  had  done  its  work. 


One  day  Fifine  was 'sitting  on  the  sidewalk  in  Rat  al- 
ley, just  opposite  the  fruit-stand  run  by  Big  Eliza.  Her 
doll,  a  crude  thing,  made  of  linen  and  sawdust,  with  a 
rag  head,  lay  in  the  gutter,  the  sun  beating  pitilessly 
upon  it.  A  dog  on  a  neighboring  doorstep  turned  lazily 
to  bite  a  flea,  and  saw  Fifine.  He  came  slowly  towards 
the  girl,  wagging  his  tail  in  a  self-deprecatory  manner. 
This  dog's  name  was  Tot,  and  he  was  a  favorite  with  the 
children  in  the  alley.  He  laid  down  beside  the  doll  with 
the  rag  head,  and  was  soon  asleep.  Fifine  looked  at 
them  lovingly  for  a  moment,  and  then,  cuddling  herself 
alongside  of  Tot,  placed  her  cheek  against  his  nose.  A 
dog's  nose  is  always  cold.  Fifine  knew  this,  and  the 
neighbors  often  said  that  the  thermometer  was  pretty  low 
when  she  got  left. 

Fifine  and  Tot  had  been  sleeping  nearly  an  hour  when 
Coupeau  came  along.  Coupeau  was  a  Revolutionist,  and 
had  thfown  a  decayed  apple  at  one  of  the  Imperial 
Guards,  in  the  bloody  days  of  the  Commune.  He  be- 
lieved in  the  division  of  property,  but  had  never  worked 
long  enough  to  secure  any  to  divide.  He  was  a  true 
communist.  When  Coupeau  saw  Fifine  and  the  dog 
sleeping  in  the  gutter,  he  chuckled  hoarsely  to  himself, 
and  reeled  unsteadily  towards  them.  Coupeau  had  been 
drinking  absinthe.  Stooping  carefully  over  the  dog,  he 
tied  to  the  animal's  tail  a  tin  can,  and  to  that  he  affixed 
the  doll.  Then  he  breathed  in  Tot's  face,  and  the  intel- 
ligent creature  at  once  awoke.  Another  smell  of  Jacques' 


LA  KESIDE  M  USING  S.  \  \  5 


breath  and  he  dashed  wildly  up  the  street.  His  sudden 
movement  awoke  Fifine,  who  saw  her  darling  doll  being 
whisked  past  her  nose  with  the  speed  of  the  wind.  In- 
stinctively she  grasped  her  childish  treasure,  and  was 
drawn  swiftly  after  the  fleeing  animal.  Nearing  the  cor- 
ner of  Rat  alley  and  Rue  Tin  Can,  she  saw  that  Tot  was 
going  to  turn  up  the  latter  thoroughfare,  and  that  her 
only  hope  was  to  let  go  of  the  doll.  She  relaxed  her 
grasp,  but  the  momentum  acquired  carried  her  clear 
across  the  street,  where  her  head  struck  the  curb-stone. 
One  quiver  of  the  little  body,  and  she  was  dead. 

Two  days  later  Fifine's  body  was  borne  from  the 
house  in  a  rosewood  coffin  with  four  handles  on  each 
side,  the  immortelles  on  her  breast  looking  scarcely  less 
fair  and  pure  than  the  face  of  the  dead  girl.  As  the 
funeral  cortege  reached  the  sidewalk,  a  dog  was  seen 
crouching  beneath  the  hearse.  It  was  Tot.  The  can 
was  still  on  his  tail,  but  the  doll  was  gone.  For  an  in- 
stant no  one  spoke.  Then  Big  Eliza  said:  "Somebody 
catch  the  dog."  Coupeau  stooped  down  to  seize  the  ani- 
mal, but  Tot  snarled  savagely,  and  bit  him  on  the  nose. 
In  an  instant  the  faithful  brute  was  enjoying  the  delirium 
trcmcns,  and  in  five  minutes  more  he  was  dead. 

L'Assommoir  had  done  its  work. 


Gervaise  was  in  her  room.  Her  lithe  form  reposed 
gracefully  against  a  cheap  wooden  table  on  which  stood 
a  pitcher,  the  handle  of  which  was  gone,  while  her  feet 
rested  on  a  chair  some  distance  away.  Delicate,  shapely 
feet  they  were,  and  not  puffy  and  coarse,  and  red  like  her 
hands,  on  which  the  continual  use  of  hot  water  in  the 


Il6  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


wash-house  was  beginning  to  tell.  A  step  was  heard  on 
the  stairway,  a  heavy,  uncertain  step  that  reminded  one 
of  a  lame  mule  going  down  hill.  Gervaise  hastily  cleaned 
out  her  ear  and  listened.  The  step  came  nearer  and 
nearer.  At  last  it  was  directly  in  front  of  the  door. 
There  it  stopped.  Gervaise  held  her  breath.  She  was 
curious,  and  did  not  want  to  drive  the  unknown  visitor 
away.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  Gervaise. 

The  door  opened  and  Big  Eliza  entered. 

"Well,"  I  declare  to  goodness,"  said  Gervaise,  "  I  never 
should  have  known  it  was  you.  What  makes  you  lame?  " 

For  an  instant  Big  Eliza  did  not  speak.  Her  face 
flushed,  and  she  kicked  nervously  with  her  reliable  boot 
at  the  cat  that  sat  purring  by  the  hearth.  "  Alphonso 
did  it,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  What,  not  Alphonse,  the  son  of  the  man  who  catches 
dogs  for  the  pound?"  queried  Gervaise;  "why,  how 
could  that  little  fellow  do  it?" 

A  look  of  terrible  rage  passed  over  Big  Eliza's  face, 
making  her  countenance  absolutely  livid. 

"He  got  me  to  ride  his  bicycle,"  she  said  at  last,  the 
words  being  spoken  in  a  husky  tone  that  betokened  her 
excitement.  "What's  in  the  pitcher?"  she  asked,  glanc- 
ing toward  the  table. 

"Beer,"  responded  Gervaise. 

"  Bock  or  Pilsener?" 

"Weiss." 

Big  Eliza  took  up  the  pitcher  and  swallowed  its  con- 
tents. "I  feel  better  now,"  she  said. 

"You  look  it." 

The  two  women  sat  talking  about  the  current  events 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  \  1 7 


of  Rat  alley — how  Ad6le's  husband  got  thirty  days  for 
drunk  and  disorderly,  the  kicking  of  red-headed  Nanette 
down  three  flights  of  back-stairs  by  her  husband  of  a 
month,  and  the  other  bits  of  social  gossip  in  which 
women  are  always  interested.  Suddenly  their  chat  was 
interrupted  by  the  opening  of  the  door.  A  man  whom 
neither  of  them  knew  stood  in  the  hall. 

"  Does  W.  H.  Copeau  live  here?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Gervaise. 

"Are  you  his  wife?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  had  better  go  to  him.  You  will  find  him  at  the 
morgue." 

"Great  God,  man!  how  did  he  die?"  exclaimed  Ger- 
vaise in  an  agony  of  grief  as  she  put  on  her  shoes. 

'•  He  fell  off  the  shot-tower." 

"Thank  heaven  for  that,"  said  the  bereaved  woman. 
"The  tower  is  two  hundred  and  seventy-four  feet  high, 
and  my  poor  darling  at  least  had  time  to  repent." 

L'Assommoir  had  done  its  work  again. 


THE  POWER  OF  POETRY. 

Eulalie  McGirlygirt  sat  silently  by  the  drawing-room 
window  of  her  father's  palatial  residence  watching  the 
snow-laden  clouds  as  they  piled  slowly  up  in  the  western 
horizon,  burying  in  their  cold  bosom  the  golden-browed 
sun  that  erstwhile  gleamed  brightly  forth  upon  the  bleak 
surface  of  the  storm-beaten  earth. 


1 1 8  LA  KESIDE  M  U SINGS. 


"  Heigho,"  sighed  the  girl  wearily,  as  she  raised  her 
right  foot  and  languidly  scratched  her  left  ankle — a 
small  and  prettily-turned  one,  without  any  sign  of  curb, 
ringbone  or  spavin.  "  Rupert  will  not  come  to-day.  I 
shall  not  feel  his  strong  arms  around  me,  taste  the  nec- 
tar of  his  lips  in  a  pulsing,  passionate  kiss,  nor  quaff  the 
aroma  of  his  Cedar  Run-copper-distilled-two-drinks-for- 
a-quarter  breath.  Perhaps  he  does  not  love  me.  Some- 
times in  the  long,  still,  stem-winding  watches  of  the 
night  I  awake  suddenly  with  the  thought  that  he  is  not 
true  to  me,  that  some  haughty  beauty  over  on  the  West 
Side  has  won  his  heart,  leaving  me  only  the  liver  and 
other  digestive  organs.  But  it  can  not,  must  not  be. 
Without  the  beacon  light  of  his  love  my  life  would  be 
a  starless  blank — a  mere  chaos.  No,  I  will  not  doubt  him. 
I  will  not  rack  my  soul  with  the  thought  that  he  could 
be  untrue  to  me."  And  with  these  words  the  girl  stepped 
into  the  conservatory,  plucked  a  blush-rose,  and  placing 
it  in  her  nut-brown  hair,  walked  slowly  to  her  boudoir. 

Seating  herself  on  a  damask-covered  fauteuil,  she 
touched  a  bell  that  stood  on  a  table  near  by,  and  scarcely 
had  its  silvery  tinkle  ceased  to  be  heard,  when  Nanette 
McGuire,  her/emme  de  chambre,  pushed  aside  the  dam- 
ask curtains  that  hid  from  view  an  alcove,  and  entered 
the  room. 

"Give  me  my  volume  of  Tennyson's  poems,  Nan- 
ette," said  Eulalie.  The  book  was  handed  to  her — an 
elegantly-bound  work.  Rising  slowly,  Eulalie  placed 
the  book  under  the  corner  of  the  fauteuil,  and  saying  to 
herself,  "Well,  I  guess  I  have  fixed  that  pesky  short- 
legged  sofa  now,"  was  soon  wrapped  in  the  sweet 
slumber  of  innocence. 


LAKESIDE  MUS1XGS.  119 


HIAWATHA'S   WOOING. 

In  the  city  of  Chicago, 

Where  her  father  made  his  money 

Selling  wheat  of  which  he  had  not 

To  the  men  from  Cincinnati, 

Lived  a  soft-eyed,  pale-face  maiden — 

Minnehaha  H.  McNulty — 

(With  the  accent  on  the  penult), 

Who  was  young,  and  fair,  and  slender, 

And  who  wore  her  hair  in  frizzes. 

Very  beautiful  was  Minnie, 
Free  from  care  of  all  description, 
And  as  William  J.  McNulty 
Paid  her  bills  for  fancy  dry-goods — 
Bills  for  seven-dollar  stockings, 
Corsets,  crimping-pins  and  so  forth— 
He  would  often  let  his  mem'ry 
Wander  back  a  score  of  summers 
To  the  time  when  he  was  courting 
Agnes  Genevieve  McCarthy 
(Now  the  mother  of  his  daughter). 
How  they  used  to  sit  at  even 
On  the  front  step  of  her  father's 
Mansion  on  the  Rue  de  Tom  Cat, 
Swapping  lovely  lies  about  their 
Wild  affection  for  each  other. 
And  as  William  J.  reflected 
On  the  past  and  on  the  present, 
It  occurred  to  him  that  Minnie 
Had  a  quite  decided  bulge  on 
Her  mamma  in  point  of  wardrobe. 

In  the  summer  when  the  ball  club 
Of  Chicago  lost  the  pennant, 
Lost  the  pennant  that  their  hired 


120  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


Men  had  held  since  1880, 
Minnehaha  went  out  riding 
In  a  nobby  side-bar  wagon, 
And  her  parent  drove  an  equine 
That  was  thought  to  be  quite  speedy. 
Down  the  boulevard  they  traveled, 
Every   now  and  then  proceeding 
To  pull  out  and  knock  the  socks  off 
Some  more  unpretentious  flyer, 
Until  Minnie  and  her  father 
Had  about  reached  the  conclusion 
There  was  nothing  in  Chicago 
That  could  make  the  old  mare  hustle. 
So  they  chatted  on  the  topics 
Of  the  day — Maud  S.'s  record, 
Mr.  Beecher's  indigestion, 
And  his  love  for  Henry  Irving. 

But  anon  the  ear  of  Minnie 

(Pretty  ear  with  pink  of  sea-shell) 

Caught  the  soft  and  murmurous  breathing 

Of  another  horse  behind  them; 

Of  another  horse  that  seemed  to 

Be  in  something  of  a  hurry 

From  the  way  in  which  he  made  the 

Landscape  vanish  in  perspective. 

So  she  punched  her  father  gently 

Twixt  the  sixth  and  seventh  riblets, 

And  suggested  that,  unless  he 

Had  a  wild  desire  to  witness 

The  surrounding  country  through  a 

Cloud  of  dust,  he'd  better  hit  the 

Old  mare  just  about  amidships 

With  the  whip,  and  holler  at  her. 

You  have  seen  the  tempest  raging 
On  a  wild  and  rocky  sea-coast; 
You  have  read  about  the  battles 


LA  RESIDE  MUSINGS.  \  2 1 


In  which  thousands  bravely  perished  - 
They  were  nothing  to  the  struggle 
That  took  place  between  McNulty's 
Old  bay  mare  and  the  gray  gelding 
That  the  stranger  deftly  handled. 
He  was  handsome,  was  the  stranger, 
With  a  form  like  an  Apollo, 
And  he  steered  the  big  gray  gelding 
With  a  skill  that  won  the  heart  of 
Minnehaha,  as  she  sat  there 
And  beheld  her  father  distanced. 

"  Hold,  brave  youth  ! "  cried  out  McNulty; 

"  Pull  your  horse  up  and  come  hither. 

I  would  speak  with  you  concerning 

That  good  steed  which  you  are  driving. 

Will  you  sell  him  ?  What's  his  record  ? 

Does  he  ever  have  blind  staggers  ? 

Is  his  owner  a  poor  widow 

Who  is  forced  by  want  to  sell  him, 

Or  who  argues  that  the  climate 

Where  her  husband  now  has  gone  to 

Is  too  sultry  for  fast  driving  ? 

Seek  not  to  deceive  me,  sonny, 

With  a  tale  extremely  gauzy, 

But  get  down  to  bed-rock  figures 

On  your  horse,  and  let  me  have  them." 

Then  up  spoke  the  youth  whose  driving 
Had  enamored  Minnehaha : 
' '  I  will  never  sell  my  horse,  sir 
For  I  value  him  too  highly. 
With  the  swiftness  of  a  whirlwind 
He  can  draw  two  in  a  buggy, 
And  the  famed  steeds  of  the  desert 
Fall  so  far  in  speed  below  him 
That  if  one  should  try  to  pass  me 


122  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


I  opine  his  driver  quickly 

Would  conclude  that  he  was  going 

In  the  opposite  direction. 

He  is  bred  just  like  St.  Julien — 

Hambletonian  stock,  and  you  can 

Bet  your  everlasting  dollar 

He  is  kind,  and  sound,  and  gentle." 

"  Money  can  not  buy  this  horse,  sir, 
But  to  you  I'll  gladly  give  him 
If  you  only  will  allow  me 
To  pay  court  unto  your  daughter. 
She  who  sitteth  now  beside  you 
In  the  flush  of  maiden  beauty; 
Sitteth  there  like  any  lily, 
Tall,  and  fair,  and  pure,  and  stately. 
I  have  loved  your  daughter  madly 
Ever  since  I  first  beheld  her 
As  I  came  up  on  the  near  side 
Of  your  buggy  and  went  past  you. 
Without  her  my  life  is  aimless, 
All  my  hopes  are  wrecked  forever; 
And  unless  my  love  returned  is 
I  will  jump  into  the  river," 

"  You  may  have  her,"  cried  McNulty: 
' '  Have  her  with  a  parent's  blessing. 
And  before  the  winter  cometh. 
When  the  leaves  are  turning  golden, 
You  shall  marry  Minnehaha 
In  a  style  to  make  your  head  swim. 
For  I  love  my  only  daughter 
And  would  make  her  whole  life  happy. 
Take  her,  Hiawatha  Johnson — 
(You  will  notice  that  I  know  you) — 
Take  her  with  this  horse  and  buggy, 
And  let  me  get  in  behind  that 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  123 


Gelding  with  Abdallah  action. 
I  will  give  my  Minnehaha 
To  the  man  who  pineth  for  her, 
And  console  myself  hereafter 
With  a  horse  that  beats  2:30." 


THE  SIREN  AND  THE  SUCKER. 

"Do  not  say  that!  "and  the  fair  young  face  looked 
up  to  his  with  such  a  wistful,  pleading  expression  on  the 
pure,  womanly  features,  that  even  Rupert  Tompkins, 
steeled  as  was  his  heart  by  a  three-years  residence  in 
Chicago,  could  not  let  his  lips  again  utter  the  words  that 
had  caused  Cecil  McCarthy  pain,  and  pressing  a  large 
Eighteenth  Ward  kiss  on  the  pretty,  pouting  lips  that  were 
upturned  with  a  half-loving,  half-angry  expression  to  his, 
he  drew  within  the  ample  precincts  of  his  Prince  Albert 
coat  the  prettily-rounded  form  of  the  only  woman  he  had 
ever  loved,  as  if  to  shield  her  from  the  cares  and  trials  ot 
a  world  that  is  always  cruel  to  those  who  can  not  battle 
manfully  against  its  wrongs  and  oppressions,  and  the  sea 
of  doubt  and  apprehension  which  her  great  love  for  him 
had  lashed  into  stormy  fury. 

They  were  lovers,  these  two,  and  but  three  short 
months  ago,  when  the  fields  were  laughing  in  the  golden 
glory  of  an  abundant  harvest,  and  the  silver-throated 
songsters  of  the  forest  were  pouring  forth  their  melodies 
from  the  leafy  branches  that  shadowed  every  nook  and 
dell,  Rupert  had  told  Cecil  of  his  love — how  it  had  en- 
tered his  whole  life,  until  every  thought  and  action  of  his 


124  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


being  was  associated  with  her  dear  presence  and  sweet 
face.  He  had  constructed  for  her  benefit  a  rich,  riant 
September  lie  about  the  deathless  passion  that  enslaved 
his  soul,  and  she  had  bluffed  back  with  a  ghost  story  con- 
cerning the  measureless  depths  of  misery  and  despair 
into  which  her  pure,  white,  three-story-and-basement 
soul  would  be  plunged  in  case  his  love  should  ever 
fail  her. 

When  it  came  to  double-team  lying,  Rupert  and  Cecil 
had  a  mortgage  on  the  cake. 

"How  can  you  doubt  me,  sweetheart?"  murmured 
Rupert  softly  in  the  tiny  pink  ear  that  nestled  so  confid- 
ingly above  his  liver  pad.  "  Does  not  your  heart  tell 
you  with  its  every  beat  that  of  all  the  women  in  this 
wide,  wide  world  you  alone  can  make  my  life  one  of  hap- 
piness and  peace  ?  True  love  is  not  a  pretty  flower  to 
be  plucked  from  every  bush  that  lines  the  hot,  dusty 
roadside  of  life,  but  it  is  a  priceless  gem  that  must  be 
sought  for  patiently  and  untiringly,  as  one  would  seek  the 
oyster  at  a  church  festival."  And  with  these  words 
Rupert  put  forth  a  womanly-white  hand  and  took  from  the 
mantel  one  of  Stuyvesant  McCarthy's  fifteen-cent  cigars. 

"  But  love  is  never  sure,"  said  Cecil,  throwing  her  soft, 
warm  arms  around  Rupert's  neck.  "  It  is  fearful,  doubt- 
ful, apprehensive;  it  dreads,  and  shrinks,  and  cowers. 
Even  while  the  kiss  is  warm  on  the  sweet  lips,  it  thinks 
some  other  love — a  false  god — will  touch  those  lips. 
While  the  tender  eyes  look  upward,  true  and  steadfast,  it 
thinks  the  false  god  may  win  those  looks  some  day,  and 
it  gathers  its  treasure  closer,  loving  it  the  more  for  the 
possible  shadow  of  parting  and  pain,  and  feels  ever  a 
gnawing  hunger  beneath  all  the  rapture." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  125 


"I  know  this,"  replied  Rupert;  "  I  know  that  the  grim, 
gaunt  spectre  of  doubt  forever  chills  with  its  ghastly 
presence  the  rosy  realms  of  hope  and  love.  But  you 
can  not — must  not — lose  your  trust  in  me.  It  would 
break  my  heart  to  know  that  I  was  no  longer  your  idol. 
Surely  you  would  not  willingly  turn  loose  the  demon  of 
despair  to  stalk  in  cruel  glee  over  the  arid  wastes  of  my 
desolate  heart  ? " 

"  Never,  my  own  !"  said  Cecil  in  tender  tones,  raining 
a  shower  of  kisses  on  his  lips.  "  I  will  never  doubt  you, 
e'en  though  every  fibre  of  my  being  tells  me  that  I  should 
do  so.  I  will  hold  your  love  so  close  to  my  heart  that 
it  can  never  escape.  I  will  guard  it  with  my  very  exist- 
ence." And,  shifting  a  chew  of  gum  to  the  other  side  of 
her  pearly  teeth,  she  kissed  him  again. 

******* 
Two  minutes  have  flown — hot,  seething  minutes,  that 
can  never  be  recalled.  Rupert  is  standing  'neath  the 
fitful  glare  of  the  three-dollars-per-thousand-feet  gaslight 
that  beats  away  the  darkness  in  front  of  his  idol's  home. 
On  the  front  steps  of  the  palatial  residence  stands  a  man 
whose  pure  County  Antrim  features  are  illuminated  by  a 
demon-like  smile.  Rupert  speaks  :  "You  will  regret  your 
hasty  action,  sir,  when  the  morrow's  sun  shall  have  ris- 
en. I  love  you  daughter  madly,  but  I  am  not  a  sucker. 
You  have  aroused  my  proud  spirit  and  kicked  off  one  of 
my  suspenders.  To-morrow  I  will  be  revenged."  And 
with  these  fateful  words  Rupert  went  over  town  and  got 
full  as  a  tick. 

*    .          *  *  *  *  *  * 

"Didn't  you  come  home  from  the  Land  League  meet- 
ing rather  early  this  evening,  papa,  dear  ?"  said  Cecil,  as 


126  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


Stuyvesant  McCarthy  sat   paring   his  corns  before  the 
cheerful  grate  fire. 

"Yes,  my  darling,"  replied  the  old  man,  looking  ten- 
derly at  his  only  child.  "  I  had  to  evict  a  man  for  non- 
payment of  rent." 


BERTHA'S    SACRIFICE. 

The  first  snow  of  the  season. 

Down  through  the  crisp,  cutting  air  of  a  December  day 
came  the  big  white  flakes,  lazily  drifting  hither  and  yon 
in  coy,  coquettish  grace,  although  no  wind  was  stirring. 
Overhead  the  blue-gray  clouds  looked  down  in  a  kind 
of  stolid,  unreasoning  way  at  the  bleak,  bare  earth,  and 
the  tall,  ghost-like  trees,  whose  dead  branches  and 
blackened  trunks  were  sharply  outlined  against  the 
western  sky,  whose  uppermost  rim  was  given  a  rosy 
tinge  by  a  ray  of  sunshine  that  shot  up  from  below  the 
horizon  as  if  to  kiss  the  earth  good-night.  Altogether, 
it  was  a  pretty  slick  evening. 

Lounging  languidly  on  the  velvet-covered  fauteuil 
that  had  been  placed  by  a  servant  in  the  parlor  window, 
Bertha  Bandoline  held  in  her  shapely  hand  a  dainty  vol- 
ume of  poems,  and  from  it  was  reading  aloud  to  herself 
— saying  the  words  slowly  and  with  an  infinite  tender- 
ness— that  beautiful  little  chanson  by  Samuel  J.  Tilden: 

Kiss  me  quickly,  kiss  me  nice; 
Kiss  me  once,  sweet,  kiss  me  twice; 
Kiss  me  often,  kiss  me  long, 
Kiss  me  boldly — is  my  song. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  127 


Hold  me  tight  in  fond  embrace, 
Lip  to  lip  and  face  to  face. 
Sparkling  eyes,  as  blue  as  skies; 
Speaking  love  that  never  dies. 

Roguish  dimples  on  my  cheek; 
Blushes  playing  hide-and-seek; 
Honey  kisses  often  given — 
Pleasure  rivaling  blissful  heaven. 

"Yes,"  said  Bertha,  as  she  threw  the  book  on  the  floor 
and  hitched  up  a  blue  silk  garter  that  had  slipped  down 
to  her  dainty  ankle,  and  was  liable  to  get  tangled  in  her 
other  foot,  when  she  started  hastily  at  the  merry  tinkle 
of  the  supper  bell;  "yes,  I  love  Arthur  Ainsleigh  with  a 
pure,  passionless  affection  that  time  can  never  change  or 
decrease.  And  I  am  to  marry  him — I,  who  so  lately  left 
the  boarding-school,  with  its  wealth  of  pleasant  recollec- 
tions and  spruce  gum.  I  am  yet  but  a  girl,  a  joyous, 
happy-hearted,  two-nice-bangs-for-four-dollars  girl,  and 
life  looks  fair  and  pleasant  to  me.  I  have  a  kind,  in- 
dulgent father,  who  has  kicked  more  young  men  over 
the  front  gate  on  my  account  than  you  could  shake  a 
stick  at,  and  a  dear,  loving  mother,  whose  heart  will  be 
desolate  indeed  when  her  only  daughter  leaves  her — the 
one  whom  she  has  watched  over  with  such  tender  care 
from  the  days  of  dimpled  babyhood  until  she  has  seen 
me  grow  into  a  woman  in  stature  of  body  and  mind,  but 
who  still  has  for  her  the  confiding,  trustful  love  of  the 
infant  to  whom  the  arms  of  'mamma'  are  a  refuge  in 
times  of  trouble,  and  her  bosom  a  place  where  all  the 
sorrows  of  a  childish  existence  can  be  sobbed  out  to  one 
that  is  ever  ready  to  hear  them  patiently,  and  comfort 
with  soothing  word  and  tender  kiss  the  little  heart  to 
which  the  world  seems  only  a  place  of  trouble  and  per- 


128  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


plexity.  And  now,  when  I  am  a  stately  beauty,  with 
cheek  of  damask  and  breath  of  balm,  I  would  willingly 
give  my  life,  my  all,  to  save  her  a  moment's  pain  or  dis- 
tress." 

At  this  moment,  Mrs.  Bandoline,  a  tall,  matronly 
woman,  in  every  line  of  whose  kind  face  shone  out  the 
light  of  mother-love,  entered  the  room.  "  Bertha,  my 
darling,"  she  said,  in  soft,  low  tones,  "would  it  be  too 
much  trouble  for  you  to  go  to  the  matinee  this  afternoon, 
instead  of  ironing  your  father's  shirts?" 

Rising  from  the  fauteuil,  Bertha  kissed  her  mother 
fondly.  "My  own  sweet  mamma,"  she  said,  "you  know 
I  would  do  anything  for  your  dear  sake."  And,  with  a 
proud  smile  on  her  face,  she  started  for  the  kitchen  to 
heat  her  crimping-irons. 


HER   SENSITIVE  SOUL. 

"Give  me  the  pie." 

Out  upon  the  lawn  of  the  Castle  McMurtry  stood  a 
young  girl  just  in  the  spring-tide  of  youth.  The  scarlet 
roses  that  swung  lazily  to  and  fro  in  the  breath  of  a  June 
morning  were  not  more  beautiful  than  those  which 
bloomed  so  brightly  in  the  peachy  cheeks  of  the  Lr  dy 
Constance  McMurtry,  and  her  slight  but  faultlessly 
moulded  figure,  set  off  to  perfection  by  a  plain  morning 
dress  of  white  muslin,  had  in  its  movements  more  of 
grace  and  beauty  than  those  of  the  greyhound  which  lay 
silently  at  the  feet  of  its  mistress,  watching  her  every 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


129 


movement  with  intelligent  and  loving  eyes.  The  girl's 
rippling  golden  hair  was  simply  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon; 
the  lovely,  half-childish  face,  was  a  poem  complete  in 
itself.  It  was  a  face  that  changed  with  every  thought — 
one  moment  gay  and  bright,  in  another  thoughtful  and 
sad.  As  she  spoke  the  words  with  which  this  chapter 
opens  there  was  a  wistful  look  upon  the  pretty  face,  and 
the  deep  brown  eyes  shot  forth  a  yearning,  will-I-ever- 
find-the-hairbrush  glance,  that  was  pitiful  in  its  sad 
beauty. 

For  an  instant  Lord  Wyverne  did  not  reply.  Then, 
placing  his  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder,  and  looking  into 
her  eyes  with  a  grave  tenderness  that  told  how  the 
ghastly  horror  of  the  scene  was  pressing  upon  him, 
he  said  in  tones  that  were  almost  a  sob:  "You  must  be 
brave,  my  child;  must  nerve  yourself  to  bear  a  great 
grief." 

"My  God!"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "Tell  me  what  has 
happened.  It  surely  can  not  be  that  there  is  no  pie?  ' 

"  No,  my  darling,"  replied  the  Earl.  "  It  is  not  so  bad 
as  that.  Your  mother  is — dead." 

"Ah!"  said  Constance,  "how  you  frightened  me.  I 
thought  surely  it  was  the  pie." 


NAMING  THE  BABY. 

"  Is  Beatrice  a  good  name  for  a  baby  ?" 
A  young  woman  of  prepossessing  appearance  stood  in 
the  door  of  the  editoral  room  and  addressed  her  inter- 
9 


130  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


rogatory  in  a  seemingly  general  manner  to  the  gifted 
gentlemen  who  were  occupying  the  several  corners  of 
the  apartment. 

For  a  moment  nobody  seemed  to  regard  the  question 
as  directed  particularly  at  him,  but  finally  the  trotting- 
horse  reporter  removed  his  generously  proportioned 
feet  from  the  desk  on  which  they  had  been  resting, 
and  allowed  a  smile  to  play  over  his  quarter-stretch 
features. 

"  Have  you  a  baby  ? "  he  asked. 

"Why,  certainly,"  replied  the  young  woman,  her 
tone  indicating  surprise  slightly  tinged  with  anger. 

"Well,"  said  the  personal  friend  of  Rarus,  "you 
mustn't  get  angry,  because  one  soft,  sensuous  day  in  sum- 
mer, when  the  birds  were  twittering  their  sweetest  twits, 
a  woman  came  up  here  on  the  same  errand  that  brings 
you,  and  after  we  had  picked  out  a  pretty  smooth  title 
for  her  infant — 1  forget  whether  it  was  Miriam  or  Carita 
we  settled  on — she  went  away  happy,  and  along  in  the 
fall — the  golden-tinted  fall — just  as  the  leaves  were  turn- 
ing brown  and  all  nature  seemed  hushed  in  sweet  repose, 
waiting  for  the  base-ball  championship  to  be  decided, 
she  came  back  again  with  a  wistful,  weary  look  in  her  soft 
brown  eyes,  and  said  she  had  been  mistaken — it  was  a 
boy.  Woman's  nature,  you  know,  is  so  buoyantly  hope- 
ful, so  sweetly  previous,  that  she  will  frequently  mistake 
a  four-flush  for  the  real  article.  It  is  the  painful  memory 
of  a  blackened  past  that  makes  us  cautious  about  fur- 
nishing names  for  babies  until  we  know  that  the  little 
cherubs  are  here.  Do  you  catch  on  ? " 

The  lady  nodded. 

"Well,"  resumed  the  admirer  of  Maud  S.,  there  are 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  131 


lots  of  things  to  be  considered,  in  naming  a  baby.  Your 
husband's  name  is — ?" 

"  Perkins,"  replied  the  lady. 

"  That  isn't  a  bad  name,  although  it  would  be  difficult 
to  enshroud  it  with  the  mystic  glamour  of  romance.  But 
I  hardly  think  '  Beatrice '  would  look  well  in  front  of 
it.  The  name  of  '  Beatrice,'  you  know,  is  always  associa- 
ted with  stateliness  and  beauty,  and  your  little  tootsy- 
wootsy  might  grow  up  bow-legged  and  pug-nosed.  And 
besides,  'Beatrice  Perkins'  wouldn't  sound  just  right. 
You  might  call  it — " 

"  Her,  if  you  please,"  said  the  lady,  severely. 

"We  call  'em  'it'  in  this  office;  it  saves  time  and  pre- 
vents our  getting  rattled.  As  I  was  saying,  you  might 
call  it  Perkins'  Maid,  or  Belle  of  Perkinsville,  or  some- 
thing like  that.  I  knew  a  man  in  Kentucky  who  had  a 
chestnut  gelding — " 

"  I  can  hardly  see  what  that  has  got  to  do  with  the 
matter  under  consideration,"  said  the  lady  in  a  severe 
tone. 

"  You  are  right,  madam;  I  did  swerve  a  little,  that 
time.  Now,  '  Sweetheart '  is  a  good  name.  Out  in  Cal- 
ifornia they  think  '  Sweetheart '  can  take  the  pole  from 
anything  that  looks  through  a  bridle.  Now,  if  you  had 
twins,  you  might  call  one  '  Sweetheart '  and  the  other 
'  Darling,'  put  the  tallest  one  on  the  off  side,  and  by 
checking  the  near  one  up  a  little  higher  nobody  could 
see  the  difference  between  them.  Of  course,  if  they 
were  not  gaited  alike,  or  you  had  to  put  a  kicking-strap 
on  one  of  'em,  it  might  be  that — 

"  Let  me  tell  you  again,  sir,"  said  she,  "that  I  am  not 
naming  a  horse.  Perhaps  this  gentleman,"  turning  to 


132  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


the  literary  editor,  "could  give  me  the  information  I 
desire." 

"  Certainly,  madam,"  replied  that  person.  "  You  should 
name  your  little  treasure  Cecil — the  name  has  such  a 
sweet,  dreamy,  aristocratic  sound." 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  mollified  parent,  "  and  I  am  ex- 
ceedingly obliged  for  your  suggestion."  And  she  de- 
parted. 

'  You  seemed  to  lose  your  savoir  vt'vre,"  said  the  lit- 
erary editor  to  the  horse  reporter. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  young  man,  "  she  carried  me  to  a 
double  break  at  the  turn,  but  I  should  have  settled  pretty 
quick  and  come  down  the  homestretch  very  fast.  If  she 
hadn't  hurried  me  so  much  in  scoring,  I'd  have  picked 
out  a  daisy  name  for  that  filly  of  hers." 


WHAT    SHE    NEGLECTED. 

There  came  unto  an  editor, 

One  sunny  summer  day, 
A  blithesome  maid  of  features  pure — 

Hair  like  the  June  sun's  ray; 
Eyes  of  the  violet's  heavenly  blue, 

And  dress  of  white  piqu<§. 

A  taper  finger  gently  tapped 

Upon  the  office  door — 
"  Good-morrow,"  quoth  the  maiden; 

' '  Do  I  see  the  editor? 
The  one  who  in  the  cause  of  Right 

Doth  battle  evermore? 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  133 


"  Because,  if  you're  the  champion 
Of  all  that's  good  and  pure — 

(And  that  you  are  your  noble  face 
Bespeaketh,  I  am  sure) — 

I  fain  would  talk  with  you,  and  eke 
Your  full  support  secure." 

"  Be  seated,"  said  the  editor, 
' '  In  yonder  cushioned  chair. 

A  pleasant  day  it  is,  the  sky 
To  look  upon  is  fair  " — 

And  then  he  pushed  from  marble  brow 
His  tangled  locks  of  hair. 

The  maid  ensconced  herself  within 
The  chair,  whose  crimson  plush 

Was  not  a  bit  more  vivid  than 
Her  pretty  little  blush. 

The  editor  said  to  himself  : 
"  Now  for  a  lot  of  gush." 

"You  doubtless  know,"  the  maid  began. 

"  That  Woman — God's  best  gift- 
Is  sometimes  by  rude  fortune  made 

All  for  herself  to  shift; 
And  often  has  a  child  or  two 

Along  Life's  path  to  lift. 

"  At  best,  her  lot  a  hard  one  is; 

She  toils  from  morn  till  night 
On  household  duties,  and  then,  when 

The  lamps  are  all  alight, 
Mends  holes  in  little  stockings, 

Thereby  ruining  her  sight. 

"No;  Woman  has  no  liberty, 
No  field  in  which  to  show 


134  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


The  talents  that  the  fates  in  birth 

Upon  her  did  bestow. 
She's  fettered  by  domestic  cares, 

That  ever  come  and  go. 

' '  And  even  for  the  married  state 

Her  chances  now  are  few, 
Since  men  are  not  inclined  to  wed; 

And  e'en  of  those  who  do 
A  large  majority  will  fail 

To  loving  be,  and  true. 

"Therefore,  I  say,  good  editor — 
(And  here  the  auburn  curls 

Danced  in  the  golden  sunshine)  what 
Shall  we  do  with  our  girls? 

This  question  is  a  solemn  one — 
Our  daughters  are  our  pearls." 

"You  speak  full  well,"  the  editor 

Replied  unto  the  maid. 
"  But  still  you  may  mistaken  be — 

Folks  often  are  afraid 
Of  ghosts  that,  but  for  their  own  act, 

Full  deeply  would  be  laid. 

"  Perchance,  when  you  are  safely  wed 

And  taste  hymeneal  joys — 
When  everything  within  your  life 

Is  held  in  Love's  safe  poise — 
Your  children  may  turn  out  to  be 

A  lot  of  sturdy  boys." 

*  *  *  * 

Up  rose  the  gentle  maiden  then 

Beneath  her  cart-wheel  hat, 
Stepped  to  the  door,  and  softly  said: 

"I  never  thought  of  that." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  135 


FAR  IN  THE  FUTURE. 

"Speak  to  me,  Rupert." 

Kneeling  by  his  side  as  he  sat  on  a.fauteuil  in  the  par- 
lor of  Coastcliff  Castle  that  summer  evening,  Gwendolen 
Mahaffy  placed  her  little  white  hand  in  the  broad,  front- 
brakeman-on-a-freight-train  palm  of  Rupert  McMurtry, 
and  pleaded  with  her  soft  brown  eyes  for  the  little  boon 
that  was  so  pitilessly  denied  her.  She  was  there  at  his 
feet,  a  lovely,  brilliant  creature,  with  some  of  the  witchery 
of  the  wildwood  in  her  lithe,  listless  grace  of  limb  and 
poise.  Looking  down  as  the  words  with  which  this  chap- 
ter opens  were  spoken,  Rupert  saw  the  pretty  eyes 
dimmed  with  tears,  the  drooping  mouth  quivering  in  the 
intensity  of  its  pain,  and  in  an  instant  he  had  caught  her 
in  his  arms.  The  sweet,  flushed  face  touched  his  breast, 
the  lovely  eyes  looked  into  his,  half  startled,  half  ashamed, 
and  then,  with  a  little  sob  of  sweet  content,  she  kissed 
him  until  his  cheeks  glowed  like  a  girl's  through  their 
tan. 

"We  will  never  quarrel  again,  sweetheart,"  Rupert 
said,  shifting  his  right  leg  slightly,  so  that  the  heiress 
could  secure  a  more  comfortable  perch.  "  Never  again 
must  the  black  wraith  of  jealousy  come  between  us,  but 
through  all  the  years  that  stretch  away  into  the  future 
we  must  sail  together  upon  the  shimmering  sea  of  Love, 
the  snowy-white  sails  of  our  bark  rilled  with  the  breath 
of  a  holy  affection  that  can  never  know  surcease  or 
change." 

"  He  is  a  lovely  liar,"  said  Gwendolen  softly  to  her- 
self after  Rupert  had  gone,  "and  I  must  not  let  him  get 


136  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


away."  And  then,  seating  herself  at  the  piano,  she  be- 
gan to  play — gay  dance  music  at  first,  but  soon  gliding 
into  more  mournful  measures.  Soft  adagios  and  exquisite 
sonatas  filled  the  room  with  melody  and  stopped  the 
street-cars.  At  last,  with  a  sudden  clang  of  sweet  cords, 
she  broke  into  a  Breton  love-song — a  touching  little  bal- 
lad that  she  had  heard  the  peasant  women  sing  at  their 
spinning-wheels  in  the  red,  warm-looking  light  before 
their  cottage  doors.  It  was  a  simple  but  pathetic  thing, 
and  when  she  had  finished  the  refrain — 

Go  and  start  the  kitchen  fire, 
Turn  the  gas  a  little  higher, 
Run  and  tell  your  Aunt  Maria 
Baby's  got  the  cramp — 

her  eyes  were  dim,  and  she  broke  down  in  a  passion  of 
tears.  As  she  sat  there,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would 
break,  she  felt  an  arm  stealing  gently  around  her  neck, 
and  soon  a  bearded  face  was  pressed  to  her  cheeks. 
Looking  up  in  alarm,  she  saw  that  it  was  Rupert. 

"  Why  are  you  weeping,  my  angel? "  he  asked,  caressing 
with  tender  grace  the  blonde  bang  that  was  lying  so  trust- 
fully against  his  vest.  "  Can  you  not  tell  me  your  sorrow? " 

For  an  instant  Gwendolen  did  not  speak.  Then,  looking 
up  to  him  with  all  the  beautiful  innocence  of  her  North 
Side  nature,  she  said,  in  low,  broken  accents:  "I  was 
thinking,  precious,  that  if  I  ever  did  get  married,  and  the 
baby  did  have  a  cramp,  we  could  not  start  the  fire  " — and 
a  look  of  frozen  horror  overspread  the  pure  young  face. 

"Why,"  asked  Rupert  in  agonized  tones,  "why  could 
we  not  start  the  fire? " 

"Because,"  said  Gwendolen,  "you  are  too  eternally 
lazy  to  have  any  kindling  wood  ready  over  night." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  137 


POINTS    ON    ETIQUETTE. 

"I  understand,"  said  a  rather  subdued-looking  man 
who  entered  the  editorial  rooms  yesterday  afternoon, 
"that  there  is  a  gentleman  here  who  answers  all  questions 
sent  to  the  office.  Is  that  the  case?" 

"  He's  out  just  now,"  said  a  young  editor,  whose  prin- 
cipal occupation  seemed  to  consist  in  placing  his  feet  on 
a  desk  and  telling  stories  of  a  not-at-all-doubtful  nature 
to  the  other  powerful  minds  who  had  quarters  in  the 
room.  "  He's  gone  over  on  the  West  Side  to  find  out 
how  many  miles  per  day  a  vessel  will  be  delayed  by  head 
winds  on  a  voyage  from  Liverpool  to  New  York,  if  Tal- 
mage  is  lecturing  in  Brooklyn  and  facing  east.  But,  if 
your  question  isn't  too  aerial  in  its  nature,  too  high  for 
us,  perhaps  we  can  find  an  answer  for  you,  without  wait- 
ing for  the  Idiotic  Inquirer  man  to  return." 

"What  I  wished  to  ascertain,"  said  the  gentleman, 
"  was  in  relation  to  the  Queen —  " 

"Oh,  I  know  all  about  the  queen,"  interrupted  the 
trotting-horse  reporter.  "Was  it  in  pedro  or  seven-up 
that  they  nipped  you  for  a  bet? " 

"  I  never  play  cards,"  was  the  reply.  "  My  question 
is  in  regard  to  the  Queen  of  England,  and  the  prece- 
dence which  members  of  the  royal  family  take  over  each 
other  on  state  occasions.  You  remember  when  Princess 
Louise  married  the  Marquis  of  Lome?" 

"Yes,"  promptly  responded  the  young  editor;  "it  was 
the  year  Goldsmith  Maid  trotted  in  2:16^.  You  bet  I 
remember  it." 

"At  that  time,"  continued  the  visitor,  "the  statement 


138  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


was  made,  that  in  consequence  of  his  not  being  of  royal 
blood,  the  Marquis  would  not  be  allowed  by  the  laws  of 
court  etiquette  to  sit  beside  his  wife  at  a  state  dinner.  Is 
that  so?" 

"I  should  just  twitter  that  it  was,"  replied  the  young 
man  whose  recollections  of  Goldsmith  Maid  were  so 
vivid.  "  There  is  no  place  in  the  world  where  a  pedigree 
with  five  thoroughbred  crosses  in  it  is  of  more  account 
than  in  England." 

"Could  you  tell  me  how  the  members  of  the  royal 
family  stand  in  relation  to  each  other  on  public  occa- 
sions?" asked  the  mild-looking  gentleman.  ''I  suppose 
that  rank  has  something  to  do  with  it." 

"Oh,  yes;  some  of  'em  are  ranker  than  others,  but 
they  all  stand  checking  up  pretty  high.  Now,  what  you 
want  to  know,  I  suppose,  is,  where  the  Marquis  of 
Lome  would  sit  at,  say,  the  Queen's  Thanksgiving 
dinner?" 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  wish  to  ascertain,"  was  the 
reply. 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man,  "in  the  first  place,  the 
Queen  would  be  up  at  the  head  of  the  table,  near  the 
turkey — kind  of  have  the  pole  on  the  rest  of  the  field. 
Do  you  drop?" 

"  Yes,"  was  the  answer;  "  I  think  I  catch  your  meaning." 

"  Next  to  the  Queen  is  the  Prince  of  Wales — he's  her 
eldest  son,  you  know.  Then  come  his  wife  and  five 
children.  After  they  have  been  provided  with  seats,  the 
Duke  of  Edinburgh  and  his  collection  must  be  looked 
after.  Then  there  is  the  Duke  of  Connaught  and  his 
wife,  then  Prince  Leopold,  the  Princess  Louise,  the 
Princess  Beatrice,  the — " 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  139 


"But,  my  dear  sir,"  interrupted  the  seeker  of  informa- 
tion, "you  have  already  mentioned  more  than  enough 
people  to  fill  an  ordinary  table." 

"Oh,  I  haven't  fairly  begun  yet.  There  are  several  of 
the  folks  not  yet  referred  to,  and  then  there  are  numer- 
ous installments  of  the  Queen's  cousins,  who  make  it  a 
point  to  come  around  Thanksgiving  Day — at  least  twenty 
of  'em.  On  the  whole,  I  should  say  that,  if  the  head  of 
the  table  was  in  the  dining-room,  and  dinner  began 
promptly  at  two  o'clock,  the  Marquis  of  Lome  would  be 
enjoying  a  piece  of  the  turkey's  neck  and  some  celery 
tops  out  in  the  back-yard  about  8:30  p.  m." 

•*  I  am  very  much  obliged,  indeed,  for  this  informa- 
tion," said  the  gentleman,  "and  1  shall  certainly  give 
proper  credit  for  it  in  my  lecture  on  'The  Effete  Mon- 
archies of  Europe,'  before  the  West  Side  Literary  Asso- 
ciation, next  week." 

"You  had  better  change  the  title,"  suggested  the  horse 
reporter,  "because  this  monarchy  we've  been  talking 
about  is  not  effete.  You're  a  nice-looking  old  man,  and 
I  wouldn't  like  to  see  you  make  a  sucker  of  yourself  be- 
fore a  crowd." 

"Thanks.  I  will  adopt  your  suggestion.  Good-day, 
sir." 

"Bon  jour"  was  the  cordial  reply.  "  Excuse  nix- 
speaking  French  to  a  West-Sider,  but  we  are  not  allowed 
to  use  any  other  language  around  here  after  three  o'clock. 
The  literary  editor  comes  in  at  that  time." 


140  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


INCREASED  HER  VALUE. 

"  My  own  darling." 

George  W.  Simpson  says  these  words  softly  to  himself 
as  he  lies  in  the  hammock  under  the  linden  trees,  the 
soft  breath  of  a  June  zephyr  kissing  the  pearl-colored 
pants  that  fit  him  so  suddenly,  and  then  rioting  among 
the  scarlet  bank  of  roses  that  are  climbing  in  fanciful 
ways  around  the  pillars  that  guard  the  entrance  to  Dis- 
tress Warrant  Castle.  She  of  whom  he  speaks  them  is  a 
beautiful  girl  with  a  dusky,  piquante  face — a  face  that  is 
arch,  sparkling,  and  bright,  as  only  brunette  faces  can  be — 
and  over  the  laughing  face  is  a  fluffy  mass  of  dark  wav- 
ing hair,  while  a  pair  of  pansy-dark  eyes  with  golden 
lights  in  their  soft  depths,  and  sweetly  curving  lips  tinted 
with  the  velvety  crimson  of  the  rose,  complete  a  picture 
that  would  make  your  head  swim. 

Reine  McCloskey  is  indeed  beautiful,  and  as  she  comes 
singing  along  the  graveled  path  with  the  golden  light  of 
a  summer  day  falling  upon  her  uncovered  head,  the  very 
birds  that  are  caroling  among  the  branches  of  the  lindens 
seem  to  pause  and  look  at  her.  She  sings  in  a  low,  sweet 
voice  that  is  tremulous  with  dinner,  a  little  love  song  that 
she  had  heard  in  Milwaukee:  ' 

"  Mary  Ann  McLaughlin,  don't  you  cry, 
Wipe  the  tear-drops  from  your  eye; 
You'll  be  happy  by-and-by — 
Mar}'  Ann  McLaughlin,  don't  you  cry." 

The  pure,  Madonna-like  face  of  the  young  man  lifts 
itself  from  the  depths  of  the  hammock  and  he  looks  at 
the  girl  with  a  weary,  wistful,  two-hot-days-and-no-white- 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  141 


vest-in-the-house  expression  that  would  move  a  plumber. 
She  sees  him,  and  runs  eagerly  to  the  hammock.  Put- 
ting her  dimpled  arm  around  his  neck,  she  kisses  the 
rosebud  mouth  and  then  seats  herself  by  his  side. 

"  Do  you  love  me  as  much  to-day  as  you  did  last  Thurs- 
day?" she  asks,  while  the  brown  eyes  sparkle  with  merri- 
ment. But  back  of  the  laughing  look  there  is  a  tender, 
loving,  I-must-not-let-him-get-away  expression  that  tells 
how  she  worships  this  man. 

"Yes,  sweetheart,"  replied  George,  "I  love  you  more 
every  day  of  my  life,  for  you  do  not  sing  as  much  as  you 
used  to." 


THE  TRUE  SAXON  SPIRIT. 

"What  do  you  think,  Myrtle?" 

"  I  hardly  know  what  to  think,  Reginald,"  replied  the 
girl,  her  eyes  illumined  with  the  radiant  light  of  love,  as 
she  turned  in  response  to  Reginald  Simpson's  question 
and  looked  at  him  with  the  beautiful,  tender,  calf-like 
look  of  a  first  and  only  love.  "  I  know  that,  whatever 
my  father  may  say,  whatever  he  may  do,  my  love  for  you 
will  never  falter  or  fail;  my  trust  in  the  nobility  of  your 
nature  will  be  as  steadfast  as  the  mighty  rock  of  Gibral- 
ter,  that  flings  back  in  scorn  from  its  stone-buttressed 
base  the  mighty  billows  that  are  ever  beating  against  its 
solid  sides  in  their  mad,  impotent  fury." 

When  Myrtle  got  well  under  way  she  was  a  pretty 
smooth  talker.  She  was  a  fair,  slender  girl,  with  the  lus- 
trous brown  eyes  that  one  sees  so  often  in  Bramah  hens, 


142  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


and  a  complexion  that  never  cost  less  than  one  dollar  per 
box.  As  she  stood  in  the  parlor  of  her  father's  palatial 
residence  this  balmy  June  evening,  her  hand  placed  trust- 
ingly in  that  of  Reginald,  while  her  face  almost  touched 
his  as  they  spoke  the  words  quoted  above,  the  picture 
was  indeed  a  pretty  one. 

"You  are  sure  that  he  has  heard  all?"  asked  Reginald, 
in  solemn,  pleading  tones. 

"Dead  certain,"  replied  the  girl.  "You  can  bet  on 
this,  darling." 

At  this  moment  the  sound  of  footsteps  was  heard. 
Myrtle  ran  to  the  window  and  peered  anxiously  out  into 
the  yard. 

"He  is  coming,"  she  said  in  affrighted  tones,  "and 
you  must  confess  all  and  trust  to  his  mercy." 

"I  guess  you  are  right,  sis,"  replied  Reginald. 

In  a  moment  George  W.  Hathaway,  the  merchant 
prince,  entered  the  room.  Reginald  at  once  went  up  to 
him. 

"  Mr.  Hathaway,"  he  said,  "  I  have  come  here  to-night 
to  tell  you  frankly  that  last  Sunday  morning  I  went  out 
to  the  race-track.  You  know  that  Myrtle  and  I  love 
each  other  with  a  deathless,  Dearborn  avenue  love  that 
opposition  will  only  make  stronger,  and  that  we  have 
plighted  our  troth.  I  do  not  seek  to  defend  my  conduct 
of  last  Sunday.  I  know  that  it  is  wrong  to  visit  a  race- 
track at  all,  and  especially  on  Sunday.  But  it  seemed  to 
me  more  noble,  more  manly  to  tell  you  the  exact  truth." 

"So  you  were  out  to  the  track,  Sunday?"  said  the  old 
man,  his  face  assuming  a  sad,  pained  expression. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Ah!  that  was  indeed  wrong.     But  step  with  me  into 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  143 


my  library.  This  is  a  serious  matter,  involving,  per- 
haps, the  future  happiness  of  my  only  child."  And 
as  he  spoke  the  merchant  hastily  wiped  away  a  pearly 
tear  that  hung  tremblingly  on  the  lower  lid  of  his  off 
eye. 

The  two  men  stepped  into  the  library,  Mr.  Hathaway 
closing  the  door  as  they  entered.  Re'ginald  felt  that  the 
worst  would  soon  come.  Seating  himself  in  an  easy 
chair,  Mr.  Hathaway  looked  earnestly  at  Reginald  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  spoke  up  suddenly: 

"  Did  you  see  a  little  bay  mare  with  a  sort  of  spike  tail 
and  her  near  front  foot  white,  being  exercised  out  there 
Sunday  morning?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Reginald. 

"  How  fast  did  she  go? " 

"She  trotted  a  mile  in  2:23^,  the  last  quarter  in  thirty- 
five  seconds,"  was  the  reply. 

A  peaceful,  happy  smile  stole  over  the  old  man's  face. 
"Reginald,  my  boy,"  he  said  in  low,  earnest  tones,  "that 
little  bay  mare  belongs  to  me.  My  position  as  Deacon 
will  not  allow  me  publicly  to  acknowledge  the  owner- 
ship of  the  animal,  but  you  can  bet  your  sweet  life 
that  when  she  is  cut  loose  at  the  July  races  I  will 
break  all  the  officers  of  our  church  and  several  people 
in  the  adjoining  parish.  Do  you  understand,  my 
boy?" 

"Yes,  I  catch  on,"  said  Reginald.  "I  knew  you 
owned  the  mare  all  the  time,  but  a  Chicagoan  is  too 
noble  to  give  away  his  prospective  father-in-law."  And 
stepping  to  the  sideboard,  Reginald  courteously  poured 
out  a  drink  of  sour  mash  for  Mr.  Hathaway  before  tak- 
ing one  himself. 


144  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


The  old  man  did  not  fail  to  notice  this  action.  "  This 
boy  has  the  true  Saxon  spirit,"  he  murmured  to  himself, 
"and  he  shall  marry  Myrtle  when  the  leaves  begin  to 
turn.  I  shall  need  him  myself  during  the  trotting 
season." 


WOOED,   BUT   NOT   WON. 

The  editor  so  gay 

Is  feeling  well  to-day, 
Because  of  poems  he  has  burned  a  score. 

He's  tilted  back  his  chair, 

His  feet  are  high  in  air, 
And  he's  ready  to  incinerate  some  more. 

A  step  is  on  the  stair, 

The  editor's  red  hair 
Begins  to  rise  like  quills  on  porcupine. 

His  face  a  dreadful  frown 

Assumes,  his  feet  come  down: 
He's  a  kind  of  human  giant-powder  mine. 

In  steps  a  pretty  maid, 

Her  hair  is  just  the  shade 
Of  summer  sun  that  gilds  the  lofty  spires. 

She's  pretty  and  piquant, 

"  Whatever  can  she  want  ?" 
The  editor  soft  to  himself  inquires. 

"  I  came,  sir,"  she  began, 

"  To  ask  you  if  I  can 
A  Christmas  story  for  your  paper  write. 

I  don't  want  any  pay — 

My  name  is  Myrtle  May — 
I'd  like  to  stand  on  fame's  immortal  height. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  145 


"  O,  Myrtle,"  he  replied, 
"  You'd  better  be  my  bride; 
I'm  lonely  since  the  trotting  season's  o'er. 
As  wife  of  one  who  writes 
Of  ball  games  and  cock  fights 
You'd  have  of  fame  a  quite  sufficient  store. 

The  maiden  fled;  and  now. 

The  editor,  I  trow, 
Doth  daily  play  that  little  game  of  his. 

He  knows  girls  can  not  stand 

His  locks  of  auburn,  and 
The  quarter-stretch  expression  of  his  phiz. 


FIFINIE'S  MARRIAGE. 

Night  in  Paris. 

A  pall  seems  hanging  over  the  city,  so  intense  is  the 
darkness.  The  Seine,  its  murky  waters  shimmering  in 
the  lights  from  the  shore  on  either  side,  flows  silently 
to  the  sea,  seeming  like  a  huge  serpent  whose  noiseless 
undulations  and  writhings  carry  it  forward  with  a  rapid- 
ity that  is  at  once  inexplicable  and  horrifying.  There  is 
something  fascinating  about  a  river  which  flows  through 
a  city.  What  secrets  are  hidden  in  its  cold  bosom ! 
What  sorrows  lie  buried  there  !  But  sometimes  the 
secrets  are  revealed.  Sometimes  the  sorrows  become 
known  to  all.  What  can  escape  fate  ? 

Pierre  Hotot  is  a  butcher,  and  works  in  one  of  the 
vast  abattoirs  situated  in  the  outskirts  of  Paris.  He  lives 
in  an  atmosphere  of  blood  and  death.  Daily  he  kills  almost 
10 


146  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


innumerable  sheep  and  cattle.  His  hands  are  ever  red 
with  gore,  and  he  laughs  brutally  when  the  lambs  bleat 
piteously  as  he  is  about  to  plunge  a  knife  in  their  throats. 
How  human  a  lamb  looks  at  such  a  time.  They  are  pure 
and  white.  Their  great  eyes  seem  pleading  mutely  for 
mercy.  They  beg  for  life.  It  is  the  greatest  boon  that 
one  can  ask  or  receive.  But  the  butcher  is  merciless.  A 
certain  frenzy  seizes  him,  and  he  loves  to  see  the  red 
blood  spurt  from  the  fleecy  neck,  and  hear  the  dying 
gurgle  from  the  white  throat.  It  is  nn  fievre  dn  sang. 
Pity  is  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  mercy  forgotten.  That 
night  the  butcher  plays  like  a  boy  of  ten  with  his  little 
children,  and  tells  them  stories  of  the  violets  and  daisies 
that  grow  in  the  broad  fields  beyond  the  barriers,  and 
which  any  one  may  pluck.  He  sings  lullaby  songs  to 
them.  The  fever  is  slumbering,  but  it  is  not  gone.  In 
the  morning  when  the  sun  is  kissing  the  hilltops,  he  will 
be  wielding  his  cruel  knife  again.  He  is  a  man  of  strange 
contradictions.  He  has  two  natures,  but  only  one  pair 
of  suspenders. 

How  little  we  know  of  life's  mysteries. 

Pierre  Hotot  is  walking  towards  the  river.  The  dark- 
ness is  even  greater,  if  possible,  than  when  this  chapter 
opened.  Two  men  accompany  him.  They  are  Pierre 
Dauchery,  known  among  his  fellow-butchers  as  "  Sausage 
Mike,"  and  Alphonse  Noir,  a  fair-faced  young  man  of 
twenty-two,  with  light,  curly  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  pleasant 
features.  They  are  all  butchers,  and  each  carries  in  his 
boot-leg  a  long,  sharp  knife  that  is  the  emblem  of  their 
profession.  They  had  met  in  the  cafe  on  the  Rue  de 
Tom  Cat — a  low  drinking  place  kept  by  Big  Lize,  a  hor- 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS,  147 


rible  hag,  who  had  made  enough  money  by  fascinating 
rats  with  her  smile  and  then  selling  their  skins  to  glove- 
makers,  to  set  up  in  her  present  business.  It  was  she 
who  had  planned  the  expedition  on  which  the  three 
butchers  of  Fontainebleau  were  now  engaged.  "  There 
is  plenty  of  money  floating  in  the  river,"  she  had  said  to 
Sausage  Mike,  "if  only  men  brave  enough  to  venture 
out  after  dark  can  be  found."  At  first  he  did  not  heed 
her  words,  but  the  old  hag  pressed  him  to  take  another 
glass  of  absinthe.  "There  is  nothing  to  pay,"  she  said; 
"are  we  not  comrades  ?"  The  absinthe  did  its  work  well, 
and  Big  Lize  was  careful  that  the  conversation  should  be 
only  of  riches  and  the  pleasant  life  that  their  possessors 
enjoyed.  "The  river  is  rich,"  she  whispered  to  him, 
"and  brave  lads  like  thee  may  have  money  for  the  ask- 
ing. A  dark  night,  a  boat — who  knows  what  may  happen  ? 
I  can  get  the  boat,  God  will  send  the  dark  night — " 
"And  I,"  shouted  Sausage  Mike,  "know  where  there 

are  brave  lads  in  plenty." 

******* 

Fifine  is  a  sewing-girl.  She  makes  hind  legs  for  flan- 
nel elephants  that  are  sold  in  toy  stores.  Every  night  she 
walks  from  the  factory  to  her  home  in  the  Faubourg  de 
Tin  Can.  It  was  on  one  of  these  journeys  that  she  first 
met  Alphonse  Noir.  "  I  am  lost,"  she  murmured  to  her- 
self after  passing  him.  "  I  love  that  man  and  shall  never 
be  happy  again.  1  would  know  him  anywhere.  His  big 
toe  sticks  out  of  his  boot,  and  he  has  a  pure,  sweet  face. 
My  God  !  this  is  terrible." 

That  night  Fifine's  mother  noticed  that  she  ate  no  pie. 
"You  are  sick?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  answered  Fifine;  "sick  at  heart." 


148  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"Bah!  "  exclaimed  the  mother — a  big  Normandy  wench 
who  knew  nothing  of  the  emotions  of  a  sensitive  soul — 
"it  is  your  liver.  Here,  take  some  of  these  pills;"  and 
she  forced  the  girl  to  swallow  them. 

"Ah,  my  darling,"  said  Fifine  to  herself  that  night  as 
she  lay  in  her  little  cot  in  the  attic,  and  watched  the  stars 
beaming  brightly  in  the  heavens,  "  I  have  made  my  first 
sacrifice  for  your  dear  sake." 

The  next  day  they  met  again.  Alphonse  bowed  and 
smiled.  On  the  following  day  he  spoke  to  her. 

Two  weeks  later  they  were  engaged  to  be  married. 
Up  to  this  time  Alphonse  had  never  kissed  her.  He 
then  started  in  to  beat  the  record.  From  a  bashful  lover, 
he  had  become  a  bold  and  ardent  one.  How  little  do 
we  know  of  men  until  we  find  it  out. 

For  several  days  Fifine  noticed  that  Alphonse  was  re- 
served and  sad.  At  first  she  thought  that  some  one  had 
stepped  on  his  corn,  but  by  a  series  of  delicate  questions 
she  discovered  that  he  had  none.  The  mystery  became 
deeper.  She  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  it,  and  once 
she  washed  her  face  twice  in  one  day.  This  roused 
her.  "I  must  discover  his  secret,"  she  said.  That 
night  Alphonse  called  on  her.  As  the  great  bell  of 
Notre  Dame  struck  eleven,  she  was  sitting  on  his  right 
knee.  Alphonse  kissed  her. 

Presently  the  bell  struck  the  half-hour.  Alphonse 
kissed  her  again.  Two  kisses  per  hour!  This  was  mad- 
dening. 

"  \Vhy  are  you  sad?"  she  asked.  "I  have  a  right  to 
know.  I  shall  one  day  be  your  wife,  and  your  disposition 
must  be  known  to  me  ere  we  are  wedded." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  149 


Alphonse  did  not  answer. 

The  girl  began  to  cry  silently.  What  is  a  tear?  Noth- 
ing but  a  drop  of  salt  water.  And  yet,  how  great  are  its 
powers.  Fifine  spoke  no  word,  but  yet  her  sobs  fell  upon 
the  night  air  like  the  sighs  of  a  broken  pump. 

Alphonse  told  her  all. 

He  told  her  what  Sausage  Mike  had  said,  and  how 
they  were  to  make  the  expedition  that  night.  He  swore 
her  to  eternal  silence.  Fifine  took  the  oath. 

The  next  morning  she  visited  the  police.  "  Is  it  true," 
she  said  to  the  Prefect,  "that  the  one  who  prevents  a 
crime  or  betrays  criminals  to  the  police,  receives  a  re- 
ward? " 

"It  is." 

The  girl  regarded  him  intently.  "Is  this  on  the 
square?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  madamoiselle." 

"  How  much  is  the  reward  ?" 

"  For  preventing  a  great  crime,  five  hundred  francs." 

"  Let  a  notary  be  sent  for,"  said  the  girl. 
******* 

The  police  of  Paris  are  like  hawks.  They  are  ever  on 
the  alert  for  crime,  and  nothing  which  is  given  away  to 
them  escapes  their  eagle  eye.  It  is  like  no  other  police 
force  in  the  world.  There  are  no  Irishmen  connected 

with  it. 

******* 

Sausage  Mike  and  his  companions  plod  on  through 
the  darkness  until  the  wharves  are  reached.  They  enter 
a  boat,  and  row  out  upon  the  river.  Another  boat  fol- 
lows them.  It  is  filled  with  police.  The  first  boat  pro- 
ceeds slowly,  a  man  in  the  bow  peering  intently  upon 


LAKESIDE  MUS1NSG. 


the  water  ahead.  Presently  he  utters  a  low  note  of 
warning.  The  oars  are  raised. 

"What  is  it?" 

"A  corpse,"  replies  Sausage  Mike,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

The  swirling  waters  gurgle  and  hiss  round  the  horrible 
thing,  which  is  bloated  and  disfigured  beyond  recognition. 
The  boat  approaches,  a  line  is  fastened  to  the  body,  and 
the  men  row  for  a  secluded  nook  under  a  great  wharf, 
where  the  work  of  robbing  the  dead  is  to  be  done.  The 
police  boat  follows.  At  the  landing,  the  officers  spring 
upon  the  night-prowlers.  A  terrible  struggle  ensues. 
At  last  the  men  are  secured  and  handcuffed.  On  the 
way  to  the  Prefecture,  the  man  who  has  Alphonse  in 
charge  suddenly  loosens  the  manacles,  and  bids  him 
quietly  depart. 

#  Jjs  %  •%.  :J4  •%.  j: 

In  an  ivy-crowned  chapel  at  Versailles,  a  priest  is  join- 
ing a  couple  in  holy  matrimony.  They  are  Alphonse 
and  Fifine.  The  man's  big  toe  no  longer  peeps  coquet- 
tishly  from  his  boot.  Fifine  is  the  picture  of  happiness. 
The  ceremony  ended,  they  turn  to  leave  the  chapel.  Al- 
phonse bends  to  kiss  Fifine,  and  as  he  does  so  she  hands 
him  a  hundred-franc  note. 

"What  is  this?"  he  asks. 

"  My  dot,"  replies  the  girl,  blushing  as  she  speaks. 

Two  weeks  later  the  Commune  were  in  possession  of 
Paris. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  151 


A  MEDIAEVAL   ROMANCE. 

"And  do  you  discard  me  forever,  Gertrude  Gilhooley?" 

"  I  do,"  was  the  answer,  in  a  low,  sweet  voice,  while 
a  pair  of  soft  brown  eyes  suffused  with  tears  looked  ten- 
derly up  at  Sebastian  McCarthy.  "You  know  that  my 
heart  is  yours,  and  that  I  would  gladly  give  thee  my  hand, 
but  papa  says  nay,  and  when  he  twitters  the  procession 
is  apt  to  move" — and,  saying  this,  the  girl  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed  convulsively. 

"But  think  again,  Gertrude,"  said  the  young  man,  in 
eager,  anxious  tones.  "  See  if  thy  woman  wit  may  not 
discover  aught  that  will  avail  to  make  our  future  pathway 
bright.  I  have  loved  you  too  long,  too  earnestly,  to  re- 
sign the  prize  so  eagerly  sought  without  a  struggle." 

"  Let  me  think,"  said  the  Lady  Gertrude,  brushing 
back  from  her  fair  forehead  the  bang  which  so  gracefully 
o'erhung  its  pearly  surface,  and  placing  carefully  on  the 
toe  of  a  statue  of  Mercury  which  stood  in  the  conserva- 
tory a  generous  hunk  of  chewing-gum  for  which  she  had 
no  immediate  use.  Standing  silently  by  a  marble  Psyche 
for  a  moment,  she  turned  suddenly  to  Sebastian. 

"You  know  the  Mulcaheys?"  she  said. 

"  They  whose  moated  castle  frets  the  sky  on  Archer 
avenue?" 

"Aye,  the  same." 

"I  do." 

"Get  thee  thither  with  all  speed,  and  when  you  have 
crossed  the  draw-bridge,  and  tethered  your  palfrey  in  the 
terraced  court,  knock  boldly  on  the  front  door,  but  relax 
not  your  vigilance,  an'  you  love  me,  for  the  Mulcaheys 


152  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


come  of  Norman  blood,  and  keep  a  dog.  When  the  por- 
tal shall  be  opened,  and  you  are  admitted  to  the  presence 
of  my  aunt,  the  Lady  Constance  Mulcahey,  say  to  her 
that  her  favorite  niece,  Gertrude,  seeks  her  aid;  that  a 
cruel  father  would  wed  her  to  one  whom  she  loves  not. 
Tell  her  that  about  four  o'clock  to-morrow  afternoon, 
when  the  sun  is  gilding  the  shot-tower,  a  cassocked  Justice- 
of-the-Peace  will  appear  at  Castle  Mulcahey,  and  that  I 
shall  soon  follow  with  my  bonny  bridegroom.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"  I  am  on,"  replied  Sebastian,  "  and,  by  my  halidom, 
the  plan  is  a  good  one,"  and,  kissing  Gertrude  trustfully 
under  the  left  ear,  he  went  down  the  front  steps  and  was 
soon  lost  to  view. 

******* 

''And  so  my  pretty  niece  would  fain  marry  you?" 
It  was  the  Lady  Constance  Mulcahey  who  spoke  these 
words,   and  the  one  to  wliom  she  addressed  them  was 
Sebastian  McCarthy. 

"The  plan  is  a  good  one,"  she  continued,  tapping 
gently  with  a  broom-handle  the  dainty  foot  that  peeped 
from  beneath  her  robe.  "  The  Earl  is  working  on  the 
North  Side  this  week,  and  I  shall  not  hear  the  clank  of 
his  dinner-pail  until  nearly  seven  p.  m.,  so  that  all  will  be 
over  ere  he  comes.  You  may  tell  Gert  that  I  will  be 
fixed  for  her." 

A  cold,  clear  afternoon  in  the  festive  Christmas-tide. 
Up  Archer  avenue  came,  with  merry  tinkle  of  bells  and 
proud  prancing  of  blooded  steeds,  drawing-room  horse- 
car  No.  176.  In  one  corner  of  the  vehicle  sat  Gertrude 
and  Sebastian,  nestled  close  to  each  other  like  little 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  153 


birds  in  the  merry,  agueish  spring-time.  Presently  the 
car  stopped.  Sebastian  was  on  his  feet  at  once,  his  face 
expressing  plainly  the  indignation  that  swept  over  his 
soul. 

"  I  prithee,  do  not  leave  me,"  said  Gertrude,  grasping 
his  ulster  with  a  convulsive  clutch. 

"  Fear  not,  sweetest.  I  go  but  to  see  what  dastard  has 
dared  to  stop  my  faithful  steeds." 

He  soon  came  back,  and,  saying  with  a  merry  sigh, 
"It  is  a  freight-train  on  the  Burlington  crossing,"  again 
clasped  Gertrude  to  his  vest.  The  car  moved  on  anon, 
and  soon  the  happy  couple  were  safe  in  the  Castle  Mul- 

cahey. 

******* 

The  words  that  bound  Gertrude  and  Sebastian  to- 
gether with  the  silken  tether  of  matrimony  had  been  said, 
and  the  happy  groom  had  planted  on  the  lips  of  his 
bride  a  large  three-story-and-basement  nuptial  kiss,  when 
suddenly  the  door  of  the  room  was  opened,  and  Pythag- 
oras Gilhooley,  Duke  of  Galway,  stood  before  the  happy 
couple. 

"Forgive  me,  father,"  said  Gertrude,  placing  her  soft 
white  arms  about  his  neck,  and  looking  wistfully  into  his 
eyes. 

Removing  from  his  mouth  a  two-inch  pipe,  and  setting 
his  dinner-pail  on  the  ctagere,  the  Duke  of  Galway  said, 
in  clear,  calm  tones: 

"  Yez  are  all  forgiven.  Divil  a  much  I  care  if  ye  were 
jined  a  year  ago."  And  with  these  words  he  silently 
took  a  chew  of  hard  tobacco  and  was  gone. 


154  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


HOW  TO  WRITE  A  CHRISTMAS  STORY. 

"Is  this  the  editor's  room?" 

A  rather  good-looking  young  lady  stood  in  the  door- 
way. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  the  trotting-horse  reporter. 
"This  is  the  editor's  room — or  rather,  it  is  the  room  of 
several  editors.  The  really  and  truly  editor,  however, 
has  a  room  to  himself  further  up  the  hall." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  of  course,  exactly  which  one  I 
ought  to  see,  because — ' 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  interrupted  the  brawny  young 
man.  "  Of  course  you  don't  know  who  you  want  to  see. 
Nobody  does  that  comes  around  a  newspaper  office,  and 
most  of  'em  are  in  pretty  fair  luck  if  they  can  remember 
what  they  want  after  they  get  here.  There  is  a  sort  of 
subtle,  magnetic  influence  that  hovers  around  a  place 
like  this  and  throws  into  a  state  of  dreamy  imbecility  the 
majority  of  people  who  visit  it.  You  really  look  more 
collected  and  life-like  than  most  visitors." 

"Well,"  said  the  young  lady,  visibly  encouraged  by 
these  kindly  words,  "  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  some 
editor  who  will  give  me  advice  in  relation  to  the  matter 
of  writing  a  story.  I  am  quite  certain  that  I  have  talent, 
but  I  lack  experience,  and  that  is  why  I  have  come  here." 

"There  is  little  doubt,"  replied  the  young  man  with 
the  quarter-stretch  expression  on  his  coldly-calm  features, 
"that  in  the  bosom  which,  presumably,  heaves  beneath 
that  watered-silk  dress  there  beats  a  heart  in  which  burns 
the  fire  of  genius.  It  is  always  a  pleasure  to  those  who 
have  climbed  the  steep  and  treacherous  ladder  of  fame, 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  155 


to  lend  a  helping  hand  to  the  struggling  ones  below.  In 
my  case  a  foot  would  doubtless  answer  the  purpose  better, 
since  more  could  attach  themselves  to  it,  but  let  that  pass. 
You  are  about  to  write  a  story,  and  you  want  advice?" 

The  young  lady  inclined  her  head. 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,  it's  better  to  discover,  if  pos- 
sible, what  kind  of  a  tale  you  desire  to  tell  before  start- 
ing. If  you  want  to  write  a  society  novel,  there  must  be 
a  heroine — a  rich,  statuesque  widow  with  pearly-white 
arms  and  a  bosom  that  throbs  with  passion,  or  a  young 
girl  with  a  wistful,  pleading  look  in  her  perfect  face,  and 
damask  cheeks.  No  girl  in  a  novel  without  damask 
cheeks  is  genuine.  Don't  forget  that.  Then  you  want 
a  hero.  In  this  office  we  most  always  fix  him  up  as  a 
sunny-haired,  strong-limbed  kind  of  a  duck,  with  a  dul- 
cet voice  that  is  tenderly  tremulous  with  love  when  he 
speaks  to  the  heroine.  Along  about  the  second  chapter 
you  must  get  'em  to  kissing — that  catches  the  bald- 
headed  old  rascals  that  haven't  known  a  moment's  peace 
since  the  first  troupe  of  blondes  came  over  here  from 
England.  Sling  in  something  about  Vivian  clasping 
Beatrice  closely  to  his  heart  while  her  gleaming  white 
arms  encircled  his  neck  and  their  lips  met  in  the  passion- 
ate ecstacy  of  a  first  love's  kiss.  The  young  man  ought 
to  have  large,  soulful  brown  eyes — that  kind  always  takes 
well  with  the  women,  and  they  will  even  stop  sweeping 
to  read  a  page  or  two  about  him.  Along  somewhere  in 
the  second  chapter  Vivian  ought  to  tell  Beatrice  how 
much  he  loves  her,  and  then  you  can  ring  in  a  lot  of 
slush  about  a  stormy  reach  of  clouds  athwart  the  West, 
where  the  day  is  dying,  and  the  wind  lifting  its  mournful 
voice  around  the  bleak  hillocks  in  the  dim  distance.  Get 


156  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


up  a  regular  old  fried-pigs-feet-for-supper-and-poker-in- 
the-evening  kind  of  a  day.  It'll  read  tiptop,  and  then 
you  c#n  cut  yourself  loose  for  another  page  or  two  de- 
scribing the  ruddy  glow  of  the  cheerful  grate  fire  in  the 
palatial  residence  of  a  banker,  while  a  little  beggar  child, 
with  pinched,  blue  features,  shivers  with  cold  on  the  side- 
walk outside,  and  finally  lays  its  frail  body  down  in  the 
white  drifting  snow,  and,  with  a  feeble  cry  of  'Mamma' 
and  a  bright  smile  on  its  careworn  face,  dies  of  cold  and 
hunger,  while  not  forty  feet  away  the  banker  is  sitting  by 
the  fire  with  the  ruddy  glow,  smoking  two-for-a-quarter 
cigars.  That  is  what  we  call  the  Christmas-story  racket, 
and  it's  customary  to  have  the  child  die  just  as  the  deathly 
hush  of  midnight's  solemn  hour  steals  gently  over  all,  and 
the  chimes  in  the  neighboring  church-tower  are  pealing 
forth  a  merry  Christmas  roundelay.  Do  you  drop?" — and 
the  horse  reporter  smiled  a  witching  how-much-do-I-hear- 
for-first-choice  smile. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  young  lady.  "And  I'm  sure  I  am 
very  thankful  for  your  kindness." 

"Oh,  don't  mention  it,"  said  the  compiler  of  the  2:30 
list,  waving  a  ham-like  hand  around  in  a  self-depreca- 
tory manner.  "  But  there's  one  point  I  like  to  have  for- 
gotten. You  remember  what  I  said  about  the  chimes 
pealing  forth  a  roundelay?" 

"Yes,  sir," 

"Well,  you'd  better  look  that  up.  Maybe  a  roundelay 
is  some  kind  of  a  song-and-dance,  and  that  wouldn't  jibe 
in  well  just  there,  would  it?" 

"No,  sir,  I  think  not. 

"  You  bet  it  wouldn't,  sis,  and  you're  too  nice  a  girl  to 
get  a  wrong  pointer." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  157 


The  young  lady  moved  toward  the  door.  "  Good-day, 
sir,"  she  said. 

"  Over  the  river,"  responded  the  horse  reporter,  again 
waving  his  generously-proportioned  hand  in  a  vague 
manner. 


ON  THE    BRINK. 

"  Tell  Beryl  to  come  here." 

The  Lady  Agatha  Frelinghuysen  spoke  these  words  in 
the  commanding,  decisive,  I-will-get-there-or-break-a- 
suspender  tone  that  was  habitual  to  her,  but  as  Mud 
Lake  Maude,  who  had  been  a  faithful  servitor  of  the 
Frelinghuysens  for  forty  years,  and  seen  Beryl  grow  from 
a  cooing  baby  to  a  splendidly-beautiful  woman,  turned 
away,  she  fancied  that  the  lips  of  her  mistress 
quivered  slightly,  and  that  her  breath  came  in  quick 
gasps. 

"  It  may  have  been  carrying  that  bucket  of  coal  up- 
stairs," said  Maude  softly  to  herself  as  she  hurried  away 
to  obey  the  mandate  given  her,  "  but  I  fear  that  my  lady's 
emotion  hath  another  and  more  serious  cause,  and  that 
Beryl,  whom  I  have  oft  tossed  in  these  withered  arms, 
will  think  she  has  struck  a  blizzard  belt  when  the  old 
lady  begins  to  paw  the  air." 

Just  then  Maude  fell  over  a  coal-scuttle  that  had  been 
carelessly  left  in  the  corridor,  and  on  rising  met  Beryl,  who 
was  intently  reading  a  note. 

"  Your  mother  would  speak  with  you,"  said  Maude, 


158  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


and  then,  to  conceal  the  sorrow  that  filled  her  bosom,  she 
began  eating  an  apple. 

He  *  *  *  *  *  * 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  me,  mamma  ?"  asked  Beryl, 
tripping  lightly  into  the  room  where  her  mother  was 
seated. 

"  Yes,  my  child,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  fain  would  speak 
with  you  on  a  matter  that  doth  nearly  concern  your 
future  happiness — your  marriage." 

The  girl  shrank  back  instinctively,  and  the  happy  look 
faded  from  the  pretty  blue  eyes.  Plunging  her  right 
hand  impulsively  into  her  pocket  she  discovered  that  the 
last  letter  from  Vivian  Perkins,  the  man  whom  she  loved 
with  all  the  passionate  intensity  of  a  last-chance  affection, 
was  still  there. 

Her  secret  was  safe. 

"  I  am  ready,"  she  said  to  her  mother  in  the  respectful 
tones  which  ever  characterized  her  speech,  "  to  hear  you 
twitter." 

"  I  know,"  said  the  mother,  speaking  calmly,  "of  your 
love  for  Vivian  Perkins." 

Beryl's  corns  were  throbbing  now,  but  she  mastered 
her  emotion  bravely,  and  gave  no  outward  sign  of  the 
great  battle  that  was  being  waged  in  her  soul. 

"You  wish  to  marry  this  man?"  said  the  Lady 
Agatha. 

"  I  do,"  replied  Beryl,  "  and  nothing  but  his  word,  his 
act  shall  ever  keep  me  from  his  side.  I  love  Vivian  with 
a  wild,  four-track-and-a-sleeper-on-every-train  love  that 
will  brook  no  restraint,  and  some  day,  even  though  the 
fiery  jaws  of  hell  itself  were  opened  to  stop  me,  I  shall 
be  his  bride." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  159 


"I  know  all  this,"  said  the  mother;  "I  know  that  you 
will  marry  Vivian,  and  I  have  but  one  request  to 
make." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  It  is,"  said  the  Lady  Agatha,  "  that  you  will  arrange 
to  have  the  nuptials  occur  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  But  why?"  asked  the  daughter. 

"  Because,"  was  the  reply,  "  I  am  thinking  of  making 
a  similar  break  myself." 


LONG  ON   DOGS. 

"  Does  your  father  keep  a  dog? " 

As  George  W.  Simpson  spoke  these  words  in  the  ear- 
nest, tender  manner  that  characterized  his  demeanor  to- 
ward the  gentler  sex,  Aphrodite  McGuire  gave  an  up- 
ward glance,  half-shyly,  half-wonderingly,  and  then  the 
beautiful  brown  eyes  were  again  turned  away,  and  the 
dimpled  hands  that  had  been  clasping  a  pillar  of  the  vine- 
clad  porch  on  which  they  were  standing  this  beautiful 
June  morning,  fell  listlessly  by  her  side. 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke. 

The  sun-glints  fluttered  erratically  down  between  the 
bright  green  leaves  of  the  maple  trees,  the  hum  of  insects 
filled  the  air,  and  the  pleasant  lowing  of  the  cows  as  they 
roamed  contentedly  among  the  succulent  grasses  of  the 
meadows  was  borne  up  on  the  balmy  breath  of  the  early 
summer  to  these  two,  in  whose  hearts  the  first  prompt- 
ings of  a  pure,  Cook  County  love  were  being  felt 


160  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


The  man  was  the  first  to  speak.  Bending  over  the 
lithe  form  that  stood  beside  him,  he  looked  with  clear 
blue  eyes  upon  the  coronal  of  golden  locks  that  crowned 
Aphrodite's  head,  and  then  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  in- 
visible net  which  kept  the  coronal  from  slipping  off  when 
the  breeze  hit  it.  "My  darling,"  he  whispered  softly  to 
himself,  "  God  has  made  us  for  each  other,  and  we  must 
never  be  parted.  Without  you  my  life  would  be  as  deso- 
late as  the  subscription  list  of  a  Milwaukee  newspaper, 
my  whole  existence  a  horrible  dream  from  which  there 
was  no  awakening."  And  clutching  nervously  at  his  I'll- 
be-better-in-the-spring  mustache  with  one  hand  he  gently 
placed  the  other  upon  Aphrodite's  shoulder. 

The  girl  did  not  move. 

Again  he  touched  her,  but  there  was  no  response. 
Still,  George  suspected  nothing.  Who  can  blame  his 
pure  innocence? 

The  dress  was  padded. 

"Aphrodite,"  he  said,  in  low,  mellow  tones — almost 
mellow  enough  to  pick — "will  you  not  speak  to  me  and 
give  me  a  hope — one  little  three-for-five-cents  hope?" 

The  girl  raised  her  face  to  his.  The  happy,  careless, 
are-you-going-to-the-ball-this-evening  that  had  marked 
its  every  feature  before  George  spoke  the  fateful 
words  with  which  this  story  opens,  was  gone,  and  in  its 
place  there  dwelt  a  stony,  almost  concrete  look,  that  told 
more  eloquently  than  could  words  of  the  terrible  strug- 
gle that  had  taken  place  in  the  mind  of  this  beautiful, 
striped-stockinged  girl.  No  word  came  from  the  ashen 
lips  from  which  the  red  bloom  of  youth  had  flown,  but 
the  wistful,  fear-haunted  expression  of  the  dusky-brown 
eyes  told  all. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  161 


"He  has  got  a  dog,  then?"  asked  George,  his  voice 
quivering  with  excitement  as  he  spoke. 

''Two,"  murmured  the  girl,  while  a  storm  of  sobs 
shook  her  form;  "and,"  she  added,  speaking  the  words 
with  a  tender  grace  beyond  compare,  "  they  are  both  on 
the  bite." 


SUNRISE  AND  SEALSKIN  SACQUES. 

Sunrise  in  Hoboken. 

The  first  breezes  of  the  awakening  day,  laden  with  the 
balmy  scents  that  the  dewy  air  has  caught  from  the  sleep- 
ing flowers  as  it  kissed  them  during  the  night,  are  astir, 
causing  the  bright  green  leaves  that  hang  so  thickly  on 
every  bough  to  wave  to  and  fro  in  an  indolent  fashion, 
as  if  loth  to  awake  from  the  grateful  quiet  in  which  they 
have  been  hushed  during  the  hours  when  the  stars,  those 
silent  monitors  of  the  night  whose  vigils  are  now  at  an 
end,  have  gemmed  the  heavens  in  all  their  splendor. 
From  out  the  rosy  portals  of  the  morn  come  lambent 
rays  of  light,  tinging  with  a  golden  glory  the  edges  of  a 
cloud-bank  whose  sullen  visage  is  in  ill-accord  with  the 
joyous  beauty  of  the  scene. 

Under  the  linden  trees  that  skirt  the  edges  of  a  broad 
dcmense,  two  girls  are  standing — bright-faced,  happy- 
eyed,  two-new-hats-every-spring  girls,  their  arms  twined 
about  each  other  in  a  trustful,  sisterly,  I-would-lend-you- 
my-bang-in-a-minute  fashion  that  one  sees  so  often 
among  the  dark-skinned  maidens  in  the  vineyards  of 
Italy. 

11 


1 62  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"Is  it  not  beautiful,  Gwendolen?"  asks  Aphrodite  Mc- 
Guire,  looking  up  with  her  pure,  oval  face  into  that  of 
her  sister.  "  Do  you  know,  darling,"  she  continues,  see- 
ing that  the  other  is  too  wholly  wrapped  up  in  the  beauty 
of  the  scene  to  speak,  "  that  the  birth  of  a  new  day  al- 
ways calls  to  mind  that  time  in  the  life  of  every  girl  so 
fraught  with  care,  and  responsibility,  when  she  stands 
watching  with  wistful  eyes  for  the  mists  of  futurity  to 
break?  Up  over  the  rugged  hills  of  her  unknown,  she 
will  soon  see  advancing,  with  all  its  resistless  power,  the 
sunlight  that  is  to  illumine  her  with  its  radiance  or  scorch 
and  wither  her  before  the  noon  be  reached.  Across  the 
pure  and  hopeful  face  pass  the  dark  shadows  of  uncer- 
tainty and  fear,  only  to  be  chased  away  by  the  ever-pres- 
ent hope  that  calls  to  her  with  jocund  voice,  while  strong- 
limbed  Youth,  secure  in  the  knowledge  of  his  power, 
laughs  back  response.  The  life  of  woman  is  indeed  a 
strange  admixture,  but,  though  the  potion  be  at  times 
bitter  and  hard  to  take,  after  all  the  toil  and  travail  there 
comes  a  peaceful  rest,  a  holy  calm,  that  amply  repays  for 
all  the  struggles  and  strivings  of  the  past.  Hardly  has  a 
girl  stepped  across  the  threshold  of  maidenhood,  with  all 
its  sweetness  and  purity,  when  her  heart's  choice  falls 
upon  some  man — an  unworthy  one,  perhaps,  whom  she 
loves,  though  bleak  November  or  budding  May,  with  a 
passionate  tenderness  that  is  beyond  compare.  She 
floats  then  on  a  placid  stream  whose  pretty  ripples, 
laughing  in  the  sunshine,  seem  only  to  reflect  the  joy  that 
is  in  her  heart,  but  ere  long  she  learns  that  there  sweeps 
beneath  the  shimmering  surface  an  undercurrent  that  is 
black  as  death  and  relentless  as  fate.  But  after  these 
sad  experiences  have  come  and  gone,  after  she  has  seen 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  163 


the  gladsome  days  of  her  girlhood  changed  into  nights 
that  hold  for  her  only  desolation  and  grief,  there  comes 
a  time  when  she  stands  close-pressed  to  the  bosom  of  one 
who  loves  her  devotedly,  and  whose  glad,  dark  eyes  look 
fondly  into  hers,  and  say  that,  through  the  golden  light  or 
the  blinding  tears,  one  heart  will  be  ever  true,  one  arm  be 
ever  ready  to  protect.  It  is  then  that  love  shall  lighten 
and  lift  the  pitiless  burden  of  life  so  completely  that 
even  the  scar  it  has  left  shall  pass  unnoticed,  and  life  go 
on  forever  amid  a  bright  halo  of  contentment  and  affec- 
tion. Can  anything  be  more  beautiful  than  this,  sister?" 
"Nothing  in  all  the  wide,  wide  world,"  replied  Gwen- 
dolen, putting  away  her  chewing-gum  as  she  spoke,  "ex- 
cept a  sealskin  sacque." 


THE    BUD   OF    PROMISE    RACKET. 

"  Is  this  the  place  ?  " 

A  prepossessing  young  lady  stood  in  the  doorway  of 
the  editorial  room  and  was  gazing  around  the  apartment 
in  a  friendly  but  somewhat  mystified  manner. 

"  It  depends  on  what  you  want,"  replied  the  horse  re- 
porter. "  If  you  are  on  a  wild  and  fruitless  search  for  a 
piece  of  plum-colored  satin  to  match  a  dress,  or  a  new 
kind  of  carpet-sweeper  that  will  never  by  any  possibility 
keep  in  working  order  three  consecutive  days,  you  are 
joyously  sailing  away  on  the  wrong  tack,  but  if  you  would 
like  an  editor — 

"That's  it,"  said  the  young  lady.     "I  want  to  see  an 


1 64  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


editor.  I  guess  it's  the  literary  editor.  I  saw  such  a 
sweet  poem  in  THE  TRIBUNE  the  other  day.  It  went  like 
this: 

The  bloom  on  the  heather  is  fading,  darling, 
The  moorlands  are  crimson  gold. 
God  grant  we  may  live  together,  darling, 
Together  till  we  grow  old.'  " 

"Well,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "our-bloom-on-the- 
heather  editor  is  out  just  now,  but  maybe  some  of  the  rest 
of  us  could  attend  to  your  case.  What  is  it  you  want  ? " 

"  O,  nothing  in  particular.  Only  I  thought  it  would 
be  nice  to  meet  the  literary  editor  and  talk  to  him  about 
authors,  and  poets,  and  everything  like  that.  Don't  you 
think  Elaine  is  lovely  ?  It  always  seems  to  me — " 

"  Now  you're  talking,"  exclaimed  the  horse  reporter, 
enthusiastically.  "  Five  or  six  years  ago  when  Elaine 
beat  the  three-year-old  record  I  picked  her  out  for  a 
pretty  smooth  article,  and  told  the  boys  that  she  was 
liable  to  beat  2:30  if  her  off  hind  leg  didn't  give 
way." 

"  I  don't  mean  a  nasty,  horrid  old  horse,"  said  the 
young  lady;  "I  was  referring  to  Tennsyon's  heroine." 

"O  yes;  you  mean  the  girl  that  fell  in  love  with 
Launcelot  and  floated  down  the  creek  in  a  dug-out  to 
where  he  and  Guinever  were  sitting  on  the  bank  swap- 
ping large,  three-story-and-basement  lies  about  their 
deathless  passion  for  each  other.  Launce  was  a  daisy, 
wasn't  he  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  sir,"  said  the  young  lady,  in 
rather  more  formal  tones.  "  You  don't  seem  to  appre- 
ciate the  full  meaning  and  power  of  the  poem." 

"  Probably  not,"  was  the  reply.   "  Tennyson  and  Long- 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  165 


fellow  and  the  balance  of  the  free-for-all  bards  may  be  a 
trifle  too  high  for  me,  but  when  it  comes  to  simple  little 
stanzas  from  Macoupin  County  about  the  rose  is  red,  the 
violet's  blue,  sugar  is  sweet,  and  so  are  you,  I  am  wiser 
than  a  serpent.  I  can  toss  home-made,  copper-bottomed 
rondeaus  and  madrigals  into  the  waste-basket  with  an 
airy  grace  that  would  make  your  head  swim." 

"  I  am  going  to  graduate  next  month,  sir,"  said  the 
young  lady,  "and  I've  got  to  read  an  essay.  Isn't  it 
funny?" 

"  Perfectly  side-splitting,"  responded  the  personal 
friend  of  St.  Julien. 

"And  I  thought,"  continued  the  young  lady,  "that 
perhaps  the  literary  editor  would  give  me  some  advice 
about  the  subject  of  my  essay  and  the  general  manner 
in  which  it  should  be  treated.  But  possibly  you  could 
do  it  just  as  well;"  and  the  coming  graduate  smiled  a 
sweet  and  encouraging  smile. 

"  I  guess  likely  I  could,"  was  the  reply.  "  You've  got 
your  white  dress  all  made,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  that's  a  good  deal.  You  can  wear  black  shoes 
safely,  that's  one  comfort,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  glanc- 
ing downward  at  the  young  lady's  feet. 

"  Why,  of  course,"  she  replied.  "  Of  course  I  shall 
wear  shoes." 

"  Yes,  you  can  wear  them,  but  I  saw  a  girl  once  at  a 
seminary  commencement  that  was  all  rigged  out  in  a 
white  dress  and  wore  black  shoes.  She  had  large,  vo- 
luptuous feet  that  always  made  people  look  to  see  if  that 
part  of  the  building  where  she  was  standing  wasn't  sag- 
ging a  little,  and  when  she  pranced  out  on  the  stage,  the 


1 66  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


effect  was  something  like  a  coal  mine  with  a  white  dress 
hung  out  to  dry  over  the  top  of  it.  What  were  you  think- 
ing of  writing  about  ?" 

"  I  didn't  exactly  know,  sir.  That  was  what  puzzled 
me." 

"  The  Bud  of  Promise  racket  is  a  pretty  good  one," 
said  the  horse  reporter. 

"The  what?" 

"  The  Bud  of  Promise  racket.  It's  a  daisy  scheme  for 
girl  graduates." 

"  Could  you  tell  me,"  asked  the  young  lady  in  a  hes- 
itating manner,  "  about  this — 

"  Racket,"  suggested  the  horse  reporter. 

"  About  this  racket  ? " 

"  Oh,  certainly.  You  want  to  start  the  essay  with  a 
few  remarks  about  Spring  being  the  most  beautiful  season 
of  the  year — the  time  when  the  tender  blades  of  grass, 
kissed  by  the  dews  of  heaven  and  warmed  by  the  kindly 
rays  of  the  sun,  peep  forth,  at  first  timidly,  and  then  in 
all  the  royal  splendor  of  their  vivid  colors,  from  the 
bosom  of  the  earth  that  was  such  a  little  while  ago 
wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  snowy  whiteness  and  fast-bound 
in  the  chilly  arms  of  hoary-headed  old  Winter.  Then  say 
that  as  the  glad  sunshine  leaps  through  the  bits  of 
foliage  that  begin  to  come  out  and  cast  their  grateful 
shade  upon  the  earth,  they  fall  upon  the  buds  that  are 
lading  the  fruit  trees,  and  soon  on  every  branch  the  buds 
ripen  and  burst  forth  in  a  wealth  of  floral  loveliness. 
Then  compare  the  maiden,  just  stepping  forth  from  the 
precincts  of  the  school  and  gazing  with  wistful,  eager 
eyes  out  into  the  world,  with  the  little  bud  upon  the  tree, 
and  say  that  she,  too,  by  the  aid  of  the  sunlight  which 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  167 


comes  from  education,  will  so  develop  into  a  woman, 
that  priceless  gift  of  God  to  man,  and  ever  cast  about 
her  the  holy  light  of  love.  That  ought  to  fetch  "em." 

"It  sounds  nice,  doesn't  it?"  said  the  young  lady. 

"  You  bet  it  does,  sis.  There  is  nothing  so  sweet  and 
alluring  as  a  popular  lie.  Of  course,  you  and  I  know 
that  when  a  girl  graduates  she  is  as  useless  as  a  fan 
in  a  cyclone,  but  it  won't  do  to  say  so.  You  just  give 
it  to  'em  the  way  I  told  you  and  you'll  be  all  right." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  sir,"  said  the  young  lady, 
starting  for  the  door. 

"  Don't  forget  to  tie  your  essay  with  a  blue  ribbon," 
said  the  horse  reporter. 

"  No,  sir,  I  won't." 

"And  tell  your  papa  to  buy  a  bouquet  to  fire  at 
you." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Remember  about  the  glad  sunlight.  Any  sunlight 
that  isn't  glad  is  of  no  use  in  a  graduating  essay." 

"Yes,  sir.     Good-bye.' 

"  Bon  soir.  Come  around  when  you  fall  in  love,  and 
I  will  put  you  up  to  a  great  scheme  for  making  Charley 
declare  his  intentions  several  months  earlier  than  would 
otherwise  be  the  case." 


WHY  SHE  GRIEVED. 

"  Let  us  sit  here." 

Brierton  Villa  is  ablaze  with  lights  this  summer  even- 
ing, while  on  the  lawn  that  stretches  away  toward  the 


1 68  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


heavy  postern  gates  there  are  little  knots  of  merry  young 
people,  the  Chinese  lanterns  with  which  the  grounds  are 
illuminated  bringing  into  strong  relief  the  pretty  dresses 
of  soft  white  goods  that  the  ladies  wear,  while  the  rustic 
seats  scattered  here  and  there  over  the  velvety  green  of 
the  lawn  lose  much  of  their  angularity  and  hardness  of  out- 
line when  seen  in  the  dim  half-light  that  pervades  the  place. 

"Aren't  you  tired,  Regy?"  asks  Gladys  McMurtry,  as 
she  nestles  cozily  in  one  corner  of  a  great  chair  made 
of  the  gnarled  branches  of  an  old  oak  that,  after  braving 
the  storms  of  centuries,  and  tossing  its  limbs  in  bold  de- 
fiance of  all  the  forces  of  Nature,  had  been  cut  down  at 
the  mandate  of  a  landscape  gardener,  in  order  that  the 
owner  of  Brierton  Villa  might  have  an  unobstructed  view 
of  his  broad  domain,  as  he  sat  in  the  conservatory  of  a 
summer  afternoon  looking  out  upon  a  broad  vista  of 
meadow  land,  garden  plat  and  fields  of  yellow  grain. 
Very  pretty  was  the  picture  as  Gladys  sat  there  in  the 
big  oaken  chair,  her  soft  brown  eyes  looking  doubly 
beautiful  beneath  the  fluffy  mass  of  golden  hair  that  over- 
hung them,  while  the  tiny  foot,  enmeshed  in  silk  of  finest 
texture  that  peeped  out  from  beneath  the  peignoir  dress, 
was  in  itself  a  poem. 

"I  am  never  tired,"  says  Reginald  O'Rourke;  "at 
least,  not  when  with  you."  And  then  he  pauses  sud- 
denly, as  if  afraid  he  may  have  said  too  much.  But  as 
he  stands  there,  looking  at  Gladys  with  a  wistful,  tender, 
I-would-eat-a-waffle-for-your-sake  look,  the  girl  can  not 
but  feel  that  to  win  the  love  of  this  man  is  something  of 
which  any  woman  might  be  proud.  And  then,  as  Reg- 
inald seats  himself  beside  her  and  takes  her  hand  in  his, 
the  girl's  face  is  aflame  with  blushes. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  169 


"You  must  know  that  1  love  you,  darling,"  he  says; 
"and  can  you  not  love  me  a  little  in  return?" 

But  the  blushes  have  fled  from  the  pretty  face  now, 
and  in  their  place  is  a  look  of  haunting  fear — a  where- 
has-the-hair-brush-gone-to  expression  that  fills  Reginald 
with  horror. 

••  What  has  happened  ? "  he  asks,  bending  over  her. 
"  Is  it  possible  that  I  have  been  mistaken — that  you  do 
not  love  me?" 

For  answer  she  places  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  as 
her  face  falls  forward  on  his  shoulder  the  girl  breaks 
down  in  a  storm  of  sobs.  "God  help  me,"  she  says,  "  I 
love  you  far  too  well." 

"  Then  why  are  you  weeping? "  he  asks,  kissing  away 
the  tears  as  he  speaks. 

Looking  up  to  him  with  the  beautiful  brown  eyes  in 
which  the  tear-drops  are  shining,  she  answers  him  slowly 
and  with  infinite  pathos: 

"Because  I  am  sorry  to  think  how  soon  you  will  be 
broke." 


A   YULE-TIDE   TALE. 

Christmas  eve. 

Along  the  brilliantly-lighted  streets  of  a  great  city, 
crowds  of  men  and  women  were  hurrying,  and,  although 
the  wind  was  keen  and  the  snow-flakes  that  were  falling 
like  whited  messengers  from  heaven  beat  against  human 
faces  in  a  saucy  fashion  that  was  not  altogether  pleasant, 
every  one  seemed  in  the  best  of  humor,  and  as  people 


170  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


brushed  against  each  other  as  the  crowd  swayed  along, 
there  were  no  words  of  anger  and  impatience.  All  were 
joyous  and  happy,  as  became  the  occasion. 

No,  not  all. 

Wistfully  peering  into  the  great  show-window  of  a 
store  where  were  displayed  the  thousand  and  one  devices 
for  making  the  little  folks  happy,  that  are  so  conspicuous 
at  Christmas-time,  stood  Jimmy  Neversink,  a  boy  of  ten, 
and  so  absorbed  was  he  in  contemplating  the  marvels  of 
beauty  upon  which  his  big  brown  eyes  were  feasting, 
that  he  forgot  entirely  the  cold  wind  that  was  making 
his  ears  tingle  and  biting  away  furiously  at  his  little  blue 
toes  peeping  out  from  the  dilapidated  boots,  originally 
intended  for  a  much  larger  person,  which  but  poorly 
covered  his  feet. 

Poor  little  Jimmy! 

Small  share  of  kindness  or  comfort  had  he  ever  known 
since  the  day  when  his  mother,  who  lay  dying  in  a  miser- 
able garret  where  they  had  lived  ever  since  he  could  re- 
member, had  called  him  to  her  bedside,  and  told  him,  in 
weak,  faltering  tones,  that  soon,  very  soon,  she  would  go 
away  from  him  forever.  And  then,  as  the  little  boy  lay 
sobbing  upon  her  breast,  Caroline  Neversink,  nee  John- 
son, had  passed  peacefully  away,  and  when  Jimmy  awoke 
from  the  sleep  into  which  grief  and  exhaustion  had 
plunged  him,  the  face  that  was  pressed  against  his  own 
was  cold  in  death,  and  the  arm  that  encircled  him  rigid 
and  nerveless. 

It  is  not  a  long  story — that  of  a  poor  boy's  life — albeit 
a  sad  one.  With  no  friend  in  all  the  wide,  wide  world  to 
whom  he  could  look  for  aid  or  even  sympathy,  Jimmy 
had  started  out  manfully  to  fight  the  hard  battle  of  life, 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  171 


and  now,  after  four  years  of  unceasing  toil  and  privation, 
found  himself  no  better  off  than  when  he  crept,  weeping, 
out  of  the  garret  that  cold  winter's  day,  leaving  behind 
him  the  only  person  who  had  ever  kissed  or  loved  him — 
his  angel  mother. 

Standing  before  the  store  window  this  Christmas  eve, 
Jimmy's  thoughts  wander  back  over  his  life,  and  then, 
as  he  sees  other  little  boys,  warmly  clad  and  with 
smiling  faces,  trudging  along  the  streets,  he  feels  for  the 
first  time  the  sickening  sense  of  utter  desolation  that 
comes  to  the  miserable  few  who  have  no  friends  at 
Christmas-time — who  neither  receive  presents  nor  give 
them.  Almost  before  he  knows  it,  the  tears  are  trickling 
down  his  cheeks  and  there  is  a  choking  sensation  in  his 
throat  that  he  never  felt  before.  The  tears  come  faster 
and  faster,  and  at  last,  when  the  poor,  weak  little  frame 
is  shaken  by  a  storm  of  sobs  that  can  not  be  repressed, 
he  feels  a  touch  upon  his  shoulder,  and,  looking  up,  sees 
a  kindly  face,  and  hears  a  voice  saying: 

"Cheer  up,  my  little  man!  This  is  no  time  for  sor- 
row." 

******* 

John  W.  Twelvepercent,  the  rich  old  banker,  was  re- 
garded by  his  friends  as  a  man  of  marked  eccentricities. 
In  the  way  of  business  he  was  stern  and  unyielding,  never 
allowing  sentiment  to  interfere  with  what  he  conceived 
to  be  his  due,  and,  although  there  was  a  vague  rumor 
that  he  once  loaned  a  poor  woman  eighteen  dollars  on 
no  other  security  than  a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece,  it  was 
not  generally  believed.  That  there  was  a  romance  con- 
nected with  his  early  life,  was  well  known,  but  its  nature 
none  could  with  certainty  state.  Some  said  that  the 


172  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


woman  whom  he  madly  loved  had  eloped  with  a  man  who 
owed  him  seven  dollars,  while  others  asserted  that  he 
had  fallen  while  practicing  on  roller  skates,  and  never 
recovered  from  the  shock.  Be  this  as  it  may,  John  W. 
Twelvepercent  was  a  rich  old  bachelor,  with  a  handsome 
home  and  two  soft  corns. 

"  Why  are  you  weeping,  my  lad? "  he  asked  in  kindly 
tones  of  Jimmy. 

The  boy  told  the  story  of  his  life,  and  when  he  came 
to  that  part  in  which  occurred  the  death  of  his  mother, 
John  Twelvepercent  gave  a  convulsive  start. 

"You  say  your  mother's  name  was  Caroline? "  he  asked, 
his  voice  trembling  as  he  spoke. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Was  she  bow-legged?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir,"  replied  Jimmy;  "  but  a  few  days 
before  she  died  she  gave  me  this  locket,  which  contains 
her  picture.  I  have  always  worn  it  next  to  my  heart." 

The  banker  opened  the  locket  with  feverish  haste,  and 
by  the  light  which  streamed  in  a  mellow  flood  from  the 
store-window,  looked  earnestly  at  the  face  within.  "  My 
God!  "  he  muttered,  "  it  is  indeed  Caroline  Catchfly,  the 
love  of  my  youth.  And  so  this  is  her  son — this  little, 
ragged  boy  who  is  suffering  from  cold  and  hunger?  How 
terrible,  that  Caroline's  son — Caroline,  the  first  and  only 
love  of  my  life,  should  be  in  want."  Then,  bending 
tenderly  over  the  boy,  he  speaks  to  him  again. 

"You  have  no  friends,  Jimmy?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"And  would  you  like  to  go  and  live  with  me?  Go 
where  you  could  have  warm  clothes,  pretty  playthings, 
and  plenty  to  eat?" 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  173 


The  boy  looks  up  to  him,  and  into  the  big  brown  eyes, 
so  like  those  of  the  mother  on  whose  grave  the  snow  is 
falling  to-night,  there  comes  an  expression  of  joy  and 
hope.  "Oh,  sir,"  he  says,  "I  should  love  so  dearly  to 
go  with  you." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,"  replied  the  banker,  "and  the 
decision  shows  that  you  have  a  sound  judgment.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  you  may  have  a  home  to  go  to — "  and, 
turning  on  his  heel,  he  walks  away,  leaving  the  snow 
still  sifting  softly  into  Jimmy's  pants. 


MET  THE   DOG. 

The  editor  is  sitting 

In  his  chamber  'neath  the  roof 
And  of  article  on  tariff 

He  is  weaving  out  the  woof. 
On  the  table  do  his  brightly 

Burnished  boot-heels  gently  rest. 
While  an  i8-karat  watch-chain 

Hangs  across  his  ample  vest. 

An  aged  man,  and  pallid, 

Slowly  climbs  the  iron  stairs; 
And  at  every  labored  footstep 

Softly  to  himself  he  swears. 
In  his  pocket  is  a  "  statement," 

Brightly  gleams  his  azure  eye — 
He  will  get  a  full  retraction 

Or  "  find  put  the  reason  why." 


174  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


The  editor's  still  working 

At  his  article  so  learned, 
No  footfalls  break  the  silence, 

The  lights  are  downward  turned. 
The  office  bull-dog's  playing 

With  some  fragments  of  spring  pants 
The  old  man  with  the  statement 

Wasn't  given  half  a  chance. 


NOT  WISE  ENOUGH. 

"Good  day,  gentlemen." 

A  very  nice-looking  young  man  stood  in  the  doorway 
of  the  editorial  room  and  gazed  in  a  benign  way  at  the 
occupants  of  the  apartment. 

"Would  it  be  possible  for  me  to  sell  THE  TRIBUNE  a 
story?"  he  continued. 

"What  kind  of  a  tale  have  you  ground  out?"  asked 
the  horse  reporter. 

"The  story,"  said  the  visitor,  "is  one  in  which  the  tri- 
umph of  love  is  depicted,  and — " 

"It  isn't  one  of  those  'And  as  Ethel  stood  there  in  the 
soft  moonlight,  her  lithe  figure  sharply  outlined  against 
the  western  sky,  there  was  a  loud  crash  in  Coastcliff 
Castle,  and  the  girl  knew  that  her  mother  had  dropped 
the  doughnut  jar '  kind  of  stories,  is  it? — because  they 
won't  do,"  said  the  horse  reporter. 

"  There  is  nothing  at  all  about  doughnuts  in  this  story," 
replied  the  "Visitor,  rather  haughtily,  "but  if  you  like  I  can 
read  a  portion  of  it." 

"All  right." 


LAKESIDE  MUSLVGS.  175 


"Where  shall  I  begin?" 

"Anywhere,"  replied  the  horse  reporter.  "Suppose 
you  give  us  the  last  sentence  of  it." 

"  I  should  hardly  think — 

"  Oh,  never  mind  about  that.  We  do  all  the  thinking 
for  young  authors  that  come  up  here." 

The  visitor  seated  himself  and  read  as  follows: 

"  For  answer,  Gladys'  beautiful  eyes  dropped,  but  she  gave  him 
both  her  hands;  and  there,  under  the  heavy-fruited  trees,  the  golden 
bees  flying  all  about  them,  and  the  air  filled  with  their  dreary  mono- 
tone, he  drew  her  upon  his  breast,  and,  raising  her  long  ringlets  to  his 
lips,  kissed  them  reverently." 

"That's  the  last  sentence,  is  it?"  asked  the  horse 
reporter. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  I  should  hope  it  was.  It  makes  me  tired  to  read 
about  such  ducks." 

"Why,  I  don't  see — "  began  the  author. 

"Of  course  you  don't.  Probably  you  were  the  hero  of 
the  novel.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Thompson's  colt?" 

The  visitor  admitted  his  ignorance  concerning  that 
historical  animal. 

"Well,  Thompson's  colt,"  continued  the  horse  re- 
porter, "was  such  an  eternal  idiot  that  he  swam  across 
the  river  to  get  a  drink.  Now  that  fellow  in  your  story 
is  a  dead  match  for  him." 

"  I  don't  understand — " 

"  Probably  not.  It  is  not  expected  of  literary  people. 
But  I  will  tell  you.  This  young  fellow  in  your  story  is 
out  under  an  apple  tree  holding  a  girl's  hand,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes." 

•'  And,   according  to   the  story,  he  '  raised  her  long 


176  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


ringlets  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  them  reverently.'  That 
right? " 

"Certainly." 

"  Now,  what  do  you  think  of  a  young  man  that  would  go 
nibbling  around  a  girl's  back-hair  when  she  had  her  face 
with  her?  Such  stories  do  not  possess  the  fidelity  to  na- 
ture that  should  ever  characterize  the  work  of  genius. 
No,  my  genial  imbecile,  you  can  not  get  the  weight  of 
this  powerful  journal  on  the  side  of  any  such  young  man 
as  your  story  depicts.  We  were  once  young  and  up  to 
the  apple-tree  racket  ourselves." 

"  Good  day,"  said  the  author,  starting  for  the  door. 

"So  long,"  was  the  response.  "Make  George  act 
like  a  white  man  in  your  story,  and  come  around  again." 


HER    FATAL  FOOT. 

"  Heaven  help  me!  " 

Reine  McCloskey  looked  up  with  a  startled  expression 
in  her  deep,  fawn-like  eyes  as  these  words  reached  her, 
and  as  her  glance  met  that  of  George  W.  Simpson,  she 
saw,  or  fancied  that  she  did,  a  look  of  nameless  terror  pass 
over  his  face,  while  the  hand  that  held  her  own  seemed 
to  tremble  slightly,  and  the  finely-chiseled  lips  quivered 
as  if  in  pain. 

"  You  are  ill,"  she  said,  placing  her  hand  upon  his  arm 
and  looking  up  wistfully  at  the  face  of  the  man  she  loved 
so  well. 

For  an  instant  George  did  not  reply.     Then,  bending 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  177 


tenderly  over  her  until  his  lips  were  almost  touched  by 
the  coronal  of  sunny  hair  that  her  father  had  agreed  to 
pay  for  next  month,  he  kissed  the  fair  white  brow  that 
was  upturned  to  him. 

"  You  love  me,  sweetheart  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Better  than  life,"  replied  the  girl,  drawing  still  closer 
to  him  and  stroking  with  a  gentle  touch  his  handsome 
face,  which  was  hot  and  feverish — "but  you  are  really 
not  well.  Let  us  go  into  the  conservatory,  where  the 
are  is  purer." 

"No,"  said  George,  "let  me  sit  here  beside  you  for  a 
few  moments.  You  have  said  that  you  love  me,  Reine. 
Is  that  love  the  mere  ephemeral  passion  of  a  girlish  fancy, 
or  is  it  a  true,  deep,  holy  affection  that  will  go  on  and 
on  forever  and  ever,  each  day  that  dies  on  the  horizon's 
purple  rim  making  it  more  steadfast  and  abiding?" 

For  answer  she  placed  her  hand  again  within  his  own,  and 
as  she  looked  up  to  him  he  saw  that  the  beautiful  brown 
eyes  were  suffused  with  tears.  "  You  are  cruel  to  ever 
doubt  my  love,  darling,"  she  said  between  the  sobs  that 
made  her  words  sound  like  cider  coming  out  of  a 
jug — "  far  more  cruel  than  you  know.  No  matter  what 
betides,  I  shall  always  love  you,  and  your  smiles  and  ca- 
resses be  ever  to  me  as  the  gentle  dew  that  kisses  into  new 
life  the  parched  and  withered  flowers  of  an  August  day. 
Nothing  in  the  wide,  wide  world  can  ever  shake  that 
love." 

"  Not  even  misfortune,  or  a  bitter  disappointment  ? "  he 
asks. 

"  Nothing  !  "  exclaims  the  girl.  "  But  why  do  you 
ask  ? " — and  her  ruddy  cheeks  become  ashen  with  a  sud- 
den fear.  "What  has  happened  ?" 

12 


1 78  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"  Be  brave,  my  precious  one,"  he  murmurs,  while  Reine 
sits  there  in  silence,  every  feature  strained  in  tense  agony, 
awaiting  his  next  words. 

"  We  are  engaged  for  the  next  dance,  I  believe,"  he 
says. 

"  Yes,"  is  the  answer. 

"  It  is  the  racquet?" 

"  It  is." 

"  I  can  not  dance  with  you,  my  darling." 

"Why?"  she  asks,  rising  from  \hzfauteuil,  and  looking 
at  him  in  ghastly  horror. 

"  Because,"  he  replies,  in  low,  agonized  tones,  "  you 
have  stepped  on  my  corn." 


THE    BROKEN    VOW. 

Myrtle  Hathaway  stood  silently  in  the  conservatory  of 
her  father's  elegant  residence  on  Beacon  Hill,  looking 
steadily  out  into  the  cold  winter  air  through  which  the 
snow  was  falling  in  big,  soft  flakes  that  came  slowly 
down  with  many  a  quirk  and  twist,  eddying  hither  and 
yon  as  if  loath  to  leave  their  airy  home,  and  finally  fall- 
ing languidly  on  the  earth  as  a  maiden's  head  is  laid  on 
the  breast  of  her  lover,  half  shyly,  and  yet  with  a  trust- 
fulness that  is  sweet  beyond  compare.  Myrtle  stood 
there  in  the  gray  light  of  the  afternoon,  slowly  picking 
to  pieces  a  rose  that  she  had  plucked  from  a  cluster  of 
the  red  beauties  that  lay  near  her,  crushing  the  tiny 
petals  in  a  nervous  grasp  that  betokened  the  excitement 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  179 


under  which  she  was  laboring,  her  face  wearing  a  wist- 
ful, yearning  look,  that  was  pitiful  in  its  sad  beauty. 

She  was  an  only  child.  Eighteen  years  ago  she  had 
been  laid  in  her  mother's  arms — those  arms  that  clasped 
her  in  a  wild,  passionate  embrace,  while  the  hot  tears  of 
sorrow  welled  up  from  the  beautiful  gray  eyes  that  were 
so  soon  to  be  closed  forever  in  death,  and  fell  on  the 
sleeping  infant  as  a  baptism  of  love  and  hope  and  faith. 
The  mother  knew  that,  just  in  the  hour  of  her  supreme 
happiness,  the  cold,  nerveless  arms  of  death  were  waiting 
for  her,  and  she  did  not  want  to  die.  Calling  her  weep- 
ing husband  to  the  bedside,  she  placed  the  tiny  waif  of 
humanity,  whose  entrance  into  the  world  was  the  cause 
of  so  much  suffering  and  sorrow,  in  his  arms. 

"  I  am  dying,  George,"  she  said  in  weak,  tremulous 
tones.  "  I  must  go  away  forever  from  you  whom  I  love 
so  well,  and  from  our  little  darling — our  first-born  and 
our  last.  I  must  leave  the  world  that  has  held  so  many 
bright,  happy  days  for  me,  so  much  of  sunshine  and  so 
little  of  shadow,  and  go  away  forever.  But  you  will  have 
our  daughter,  and  you  will  think  of  me,  darling,  when  her 
little  arms  are  around  your  neck  and  I  am  lying  out  yon- 
der under  the  green  grass,  where  the  willows  wave  so 
silently  orer  the  homes  of  the  dear  ones  that  are  gone, 
and  the  daisies  nod  lazily  in  the  soft  summer  breezes  that 
blow  gently  over  all  that  is  left  of  so  many  lives  that 
were  fraught  with  sorrow  and  anguish  or  filled  with  joy 
and  sweet  content." 

The  strong  man,  sobbing  in  his  agony  of  grief  like  a 
little  child,  could  only  reply  by  pressing  the  hand  that  lay 
in  his  and  kissing  the  wan,  pale  face,  that  but  a  short 
week  before  was  flushed  with  the  roseate  hues  of  health. 


l8o  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"  Promise  me,  darling,"  said  the  dying  woman,  "  that  no 
wish  of  Myrtle's  shall  be  unfulfilled;  that  she  shall  never, 
so  far  as  you  are  able  to  prevent  it,  know  the  sorrow  of 
disappointment." 

"I  promise,"  answered  the  stricken  man. 

Let  us  see  how  he  kept  his  vow. 

Myrtle  had  grown  to  be  a  beautiful  woman — a  flower 
of  beauty  that  men  stopped  to  look  at  as  she  passed 
along  the  street.  Everything  that  wealth  could  purchase 
was  lavished  upon  her.  Why,  then,  did  she  stand  in  the 
conservatory  with  the  wistful  look  in  her  eyes,  and  nerv- 
ously pull  to  pieces  the  rose?" 

This  will  be  explained  later. 

From  her  position  in  the  window  Myrtle  sees  through 
the  falling  snow  the  figure  of  a  man.  "It's  papa,"  she 
cries  joyfully,  clasping  her  shapely  white  hands  in  child- 
ish glee. 

She  was  right.  George  W.  Hathaway  was  coming 
home  to  supper. 

Presently  the  man,  who  came  along  through  the  snow 
with  a  sturdy  stride,  reached  the  house  and  ascended  the 
front  steps.  Myrtle  was  waiting  in  the  hallway,  and  as 
he  entered  the  door  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
kissed  him. 

"Papa,"  she  cried,  "did  you  get  it?" 

"  Get  what,"  my  darling?" 

"Why,  what  I  told  you  about  this  morning." 

Mr.  Hathaway  thought  for  a  moment.  "Well,  I'll  be 
dum  swizzled  to  Cohosh,  Myrt,  but  I  clean  forgot  that 
dratted  candy." 

He  had  broken  his  vow. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  181 


GIRLS    DO    NOT    SWEEP. 

It  was  the  solemn  poet  man, 

Full  haggard  and  forlorn. 

That  came  unto  the  editor 

One  sunny  summer  morn, 

And  placed  within  his  jeweled  hand, 

That  erstwhile  in  a  mood 

Of  loving  kindness  written  had 

Of  foeman  something  good, 

Some  manuscript,  and  seating  then 

Himself  in  cushioned  chair. 

Spoke  boldly  out,  first  smoothing  down 

His  tangled  locks  of  hair. 

"  I  know  full  well,"  the  poet  said, 

' '  That  oftentimes  it  is 

The  painful  duty  of  your  craft 

To  run  their  little  sciss- 

Ors  through  the  thoughts  of  other  men 

Which  may  not  be  expressed 

Within  your  columns — as,  perchance, 

An  antiquated  jest, 

Or  verses  on  an  oil-lamp  death — 

All  these,  I  know,  must  fall 

Beneath  the  awful  ban  that  spreads 

Above  them  like  a  pall. 

"But  I  have  here  a  little  thing, 

Quite  touching  in  its  way, 

That  tells  of  rippling  waters 

And  the  smell  of  new-mown  hay; 

The  bashful  maiden's  witching  smile, 

The  lowing  of  the  kine, 

The  meadows,  spangled  o'er  with  flowers, 

The  sunset  most  divine, 


182  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


Are  also  pictured  by  the  use 
Of  softly-sounding  words, 
And  over  all  there  comes  the  sweet 
Low  twittering  of  the  birds." 

'Twas  then  up  spoke  the  editor: 
"  Your  scheme  is  good,"  he  said; 
' '  On  the  rippling-water  racket 
You  are  really  quite  ahead. 
But  the  spangled-meadow  business 
And  the  blushing  country  maid 
Have  long  since  copyrighted  been 
And  therefore  I'm  afraid 
That  your  story  will  not  answer; 
But  if  you  could  only  make 
The  maiden  sweep  the  parlor 
It  will  simply  take  the  cake." 
*  *  *  * 

The  poet  man  was  much  downcast, 
The  luster  left  his  eye; 
He  rose  to  go,  and  sadly  said: 
"  I  can  not  tell  a  lie." 


EXPOSING    HIS   WEAKNESS. 

"  Merry  Christmas,  papa  ! " 

A  sweet  face,  wreathed  in  the  sunniest  of  smiles,  and 
whose  peachy  bloom  was  rendered  still  more  beautiful 
by  a  pair  of  dark  brown  eyes  that  sparkled  like  diamonds, 
looked  roguishly  over  the  balusters  as  these  words  were 
spoken,  and  before  the  one  to  whom  they  were  addressed 
could  reply,  a  pair  of  plump  white  arms  were  thrown 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  183 


around  his  neck,  and  the  little  head  with  its  mass  of 
fluffy  golden  hair  was  nestling  on  his  breast. 

Harold  Setback,  man  of  the  world  though  he  was, 
and  absorbed  with  the  cares  of  a  business  which  seemed 
to  engross  all  his  time,  loved  his  child  with  a  great  three- 
story-and-basement  love  that  at  times  became  a  passion- 
ate adoration.  All  his  hopes,  ambitions  and  successes 
were  wrapped  up  in  her  happiness,  and  a  look  of  care  on 
Beryl's  face  or  a  trace  of  sadness  in  the  big  brown  eyes, 
that  were  so  like  those  of  her  dead  mother,  on  whose 
grave  the  snow  was  falling  so  silently  this  Christmas 
morning,  meant  to  him  an  absolute  pain,  a  pain  that  was 
not  to  be  banished  until  the  pretty  face  was  wreathed  in 
smiles  again  and  the  brown  eyes  laughing  as  before. 

"A  merry  Christmas,  indeed,  my  darling,"  said  Mr. 
Setback,  bending  over  and  kissing  the  rosebud  mouth 
that  was  upturned  to  his.  "Why  should  I  not  be  happy? 
I  have  health,  wealth,  a  pleasant  home,  and,  above  all, 
I  have  you,  my  precious  one — " 

"But,  papa,"  interrupted  the  girl,  blushing  as  she 
spoke,  "  have  you  never  thought  that  we  may  not  be  al- 
ways together — that  perhaps  some  day  there  may  come 
one  who — " 

"My  child,"  exclaimed  the  banker,  in  tones  that  were 
half  tender,  half  reproachful.  "  Does  my  little  girl 
mean  to  tell  me  that  the  wicked  little  archer  has  pierced 
her  heart  with  an  arrow  from  his  quiver?  Does  she  mean 
to  say  that  while  my  eyes  have  been  closed  in  ignorance 
some  one  has  been  teaching  her  the  old,  old  lesson,  al- 
ways so  easy  to  learn — the  lesson  that — " 

"Stop!  "  said  Beryl,  in  an  imperious  and  almost  whoa- 
Emma  tone,  "and  come  with  me  into  the  library." 


1 84  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


They  stepped  into  the  apartment,  and,  after  Beryl  had 
seated  herself  at  the  piano  and  played  a  few  bars  from 
Beethoven's  ninth  symphony  in  order  to  clear  the  neigh- 
borhood of  beggars  and  organ-grinders,  she  cuddled 
herself  up  cozily  on  a  hassock  beside  her  father. 

"Yes,  papa,"  she  began,  "I  am  in  love — nay,  more 
than  that,  I  have  plighted  my  troth." 

"  How  much  did  you  get  on  it? "  asked  the  banker. 

"You  misunderstand  me,"  replied  Beryl.  "I  have 
pledged  myself  to  become  the  bride  of  the  only  man  I 
can  ever  love — Arthur  Ainsleigh." 

"What!"  almost  shouted  the  banker,  "that  dry-goods 
clerk? " 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply  in  clear,  resonant  tones,  "I  love 
him,  and  despite  your  sneers  I  shall  marry  him.  It  is 
no  crime  for  a  man  to  be  a  dry-goods  clerk." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Setback  thoughtfully,  "  but  it  ought 
to  be,"  and  for  a  moment  silence  fell  between  them. 

The  father  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  I  do  not  care  for 
wealth,"  he  said,  "when  the  subject  of  your  future  hus- 
band is  considered,  and  I  could  overlook  his  paper-on- 
the-wall  pants,  but  Arthur  Ainsleigh  is  a  debauchee." 

"'Tis  false!"  cried  the  girl.  "Prove  your  words  to 
be  true  and  I  will  renounce  him  forever,  but  should  you 
not  do  so  I  will  fulfill  my  promise  to  him  at  once." 

"  I  accept  the  test,"  was  the  reply,  and  kissing  his 
daughter  fondly,  Harold  Setback  left  the  house. 

"So  I  can  have  the  detective?" 

"  Yes.  One  of  our  best  men  will  ingratiate  himself 
with  this  young  man  of  whom  you  have  spoken,  and  if  he 
has  the  slightest  tendency  toward  dissipation  he  is  lost." 


LAKE 5 WE  MUSINGS.  185 


il  Very  well,"  said  the  banker.     "Good-day." 

"Good-day." 

******* 

"Enough!     This  is  horrible." 

Beryl  Setback  speaks  almost  appealingly  to  her  father 
as  she  stands  with  him  in  front  of  a  gilded  haunt  of  vice 
and  beholds  Arthur  Ainsleigh  leaning  against  the  bar  in 
a  state  of  beastly  intoxication — he  whom  she  had  loved 
with  such  a  passionate  fervor  that  at  times  she  forgot 
about  her  corn.  "  Let  us  go  away,  papa,"  she  said  in 
tones  that  were  almost  a  sob,  "  I  shall  never  see  him 

again." 

*  *  '  *  *  *  *  * 

"  How  much  is  your  bill  ?  " 

The  detective  stood  by  the  banker's  desk.  "  Five  dol- 
lars for  my  time." 

"  But  were  there  no  other  expenses?  He  seemed  very 
far  gone  when  I  saw  him." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  detective;  "forty  cents  for  that 
part  of  it.  I  had  to  buy  two  lemonades  and  a  package 
of  cigarettes  before  he  was  full  enough  to  have  the  young 
lady  see  him. 


COULDN'T    BACK. 

"  Back,  I  say  !" 

The  silvered  foam  of  the  sea  was  splashing  in  rhythmic 
cadence  on  the  white  sands  of  the  beach,  while  here 
and  there  a  fleck  of  wavering  light  from  the  signal  buoy 
on  Sardine  Shoals — that  dreaded  spot  beneath  whose 


1 86  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


treacherous  waves  so  many  goodly  ships  freighted  with 
precious  burdens  from  far  Cathay  and  Muskegon  had 
disappeared  forever — brought  into  bold  relief  against 
the  western  sky  Girofle  McClosky's  off  foot,  as  she  stood 
by  Bertram  Perkins'  side  that  soft  June  evening. 

"  You  do  not  love  me,"  said  the  girl,  speaking  slowly, 
"  or  you  would  not  speak  so  cruelly.  On  this  beautiful 
night,  when  the  hills  are  suffused  with  amber  haze, 
through  which  the  stars  glow  and  throb  in  silent  splen- 
dor, we  should  think  of  naught  but  love — pure,  passion- 
less love,  that  will  bind  our  hearts  together  in  a  chain 
whose  every  link  shall  be  a  kiss;  whose  every  fold  a  sweet 
caress." 

For  an  instant  the  man  did  not  reply.  Then  the  girl 
stretched  forth  to  him  her  bare  white  arms  that  glistened 
like  marble  in  the  growing  dusk,  but  he  heeded  them 
not.  , 

"  Will  you  not  speak  to  me,  sweetheart  ? "  she  said,  an 
infinite  pathos  in  the  words. 

No  answer  came.  Again  the  outstretched  arms 
pleaded  mutely  and  with  pitiful  eloquence  for  the  joy 
that  was  never  to  be.  Looking  at  her  with  a  haughty, 
almost  Vice-President  Davis  expression  on  his  face, 
Bertram  again  said:  "  Back,  I  say." 

With  a  despairing  gleam  in  her  darksome  eyes,  Girofle 
turned  away  and  began  to  sob  as  if  her  corset  would 
break.  "God  help  me,"  she  said,  in  despairing  accents, 
"I  can  not  back." 

"  Why  not  ?"  asked  Bertram. 

"  Because,"  was  the  reply  in  tear-stained  tones,  "  my 
polonaise  is  too  eternally  tight." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  187 


AN  OHIO  ROMANCE. 

"  Has  he  seen  her  foot? " 

Reginald  De  Courcey,  eighth  Duke  of  Wabash,  smote 
his  corselet  fiercely  with  the  trusty  blade  that  had  cloven 
in  twain  the  skull  of  many  an  enemy,  and  looked  ten- 
derly upon  his  wife,  the  Lady  Agatha  McMurty,  as  they 
stood  'neath  the  shadow  of  a  glove  which  the  wife  had 
carelessly  left  on  the  lawn.  By  the  Duke's  side  was  his 
faithful  steed,  Step-and-Fetch-it,  in  whose  veins  flowed 
the  blood  of  the  swift  courser  of  the  desert,  the  Arabian. 

"  I  know  me  not,"  quoth  the  Lady  Agatha,  "  whether 
that  of  which  you  speak  hath  indeed  taken  place,  but  on 
her  return  from  the  tourney  at  Coshocton,  whither  young 
Rupert  de  Moyamensing  hath  taken  our  daughter,  I  will 
not  fail  to  closely  question  the  maid  regarding  this  mat- 
ter. Truly,  it  is  of  much  moment  whether  this  young 
knight,  who  cometh  from  beyond  the  Little  Miami,  doth 
wed  our  daughter." 

"I  prithee  do  not  speak  of  that,"  said  Lord  Reginald 
hastily — "  and  yet  thou'rt  right.  An'  Rupert  make  not 
the  lass  his  bride  methinks  it  will  be  many  a  day  ere  an- 
other one  so  guileless  heaveth  in  sight.  What's  o'clock?" 

"  Three  forty-five,"  replied  the  Duchess,  looking  at  the 
shadows  which  the  sun  cast  upon  the  woodshed. 

"There  is  yet  time  to  warn  her,"  said  Reginald.  "But 
with  another  horse  than  thou,  my  pet,"  he  added,  strok- 
ing the  glossy  neck  of  the  Arabian  courser,  "the  task 
would  indeed  be  a  hopeless  one." 

"Then,  haste  thee!"  cried  the  Lady  Agatha.  "Lose 
not  a  moment  of  time  that  is  so  precious.  Fly  with  all 


1 88  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


speed,  and  I  will  offer  up  prayers  that  thy  journey  may 
be  swift  and  sure." 

Leaping  upon  his  horse,  the  Duke  sped  swiftly  from 
out  the  court-yard,  the  clatter  of  the  hoofs  making  glad 
music  in  the  ears  of  his  devoted  wife.  Suddenly,  she 
heard  the  horse  give  a  mighty  snort  and  stop,  and  anon 
there  came  upon  the  summer  breeze  that  was  kissing  the 
locust  blossoms  above  her  head  the  sound  of  a  dull  thud. 
Running  with  fear-hastened  feet  across  the  portcullis,  the 
Duchess  saw  the  affrighted  animal  standing  in  front  of 
some  huge  object,  while  further  on  lay  the  corpse  of  her 
husband,  the  cold,  white  face  looking  up  to  heaven  as  if 
in  a  mute  appeal  for  pity.  In  an  instant  she  was  by  his 
side,  but  the  kisses  that  she  pressed  upon  the  pallid  lips 
of  the  man  she  loved  so  well  were  unfelt,  and  the  words 
she  spoke  brought  no  response.  Then,  going  to  the  horse, 
she  took  him  kindly  by  the  bridle.  "  I  do  not  blame  you, 
Step-and-Fetch-it,"  she  said,  "for  there  are  some  things 
which  even  an  Arab  steed  may  not  leap  over,  and  it  was 
very  careless  of  my  daughter  to  leave  her  overshoe  in  such 
a  place." 


WHY    THEY    PARTED. 

"  Good-bye,  McNulty  !  " 

The  tall,  lissome  form  of  Esmeralda  W.  Perkins  was 
sharply  outlined  against  Vivian  McNulty's  left  ear  as  he 
stood  that  beautiful  June  evening  in  the  doorway  of 
Bnerton  Villa,  hoping  against  hope  and  praying  that 
something — he  knew  or  cared  not  what — might  occur  to 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  189 


sweep  from  the  horizon  of  his  life  the  awful  sorrow  that 
was  hanging  over  it  like  a  pall — a  sorrow  that  would  make 
every  day  an  aeon  of  misery,  every  word  of  joy  that 
others  might  utter  a  knell  of  despair. 

They  had  quarreled,  these  two — they  who  in  the 
beautiful  days  of  autumn,  when  the  leaves  were  turning 
golden,  when  the  hills  were  crowned  with  amber  light  and 
the  valleys  seemed  like  huge  cups  brimming  over  with  a 
purple  haze,  and  when  the  trotting  record  was  lowered  to 
2:08  1-2,  had  plighted  their  troth  so  willingly  and  yet  so 
solemnly,  thinking,  and  rightly,  too,  that  this  blending 
forever  of  two  hearts  was  a  solemn,  holy  act,  one  that 
should  ever  be  looked  back  upon  in  silent  gratitude — and 
now  they  were  to  part  forever,  take  separate  paths  on 
the  eventful  journey  of  life — that  journey  which  they 
had  hoped  by  constant  companionship  and  enduring  love 
to  make  one  of  ceaseless  joy  and  sweet  content.  But  now 
all  was  changed,  and  the  rose-tinted  future  which  they 
had  often  pictured  to  themselves  and  talked  about  in  the 
calm  hopefulness  that  only  young  men  on  $75  a  month 
and  a  pure,  passionless  girl  who  can  eat  the  bottom  crust 
of  a  pie  without  a  quiver,  can  assume,  had  passed  away 
forever,  and  in  its  place  there  was  a  yearning  chasm  of 
despair  and  grief. 

"  I  can  not  marry  you,"  Esmeralda  had  said  to  him 
that  night  as  he  entered  the  house,  and  then,  having 
uttered  the  cruel  words  which  she  had  been  schooling 
herself  all  day  to  say,  and  seeing  how  they  had  pierced 
like  a  dagger  that  brave,  manly  heart,  she  had  thrown 
herself  into  his  arms,  and  as  her  white  face,  down  which 
the  tears  was  streaming,  lay  upon  his  heart,  Vivian 
McNulty  knew  that  the  words  which  Esmeralda  had 


1 9o  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


spoken  did  not  come  from  her  heart — knew  that  some 
terrible  mystery  was  enshrouding  both  their  lives  in  its 
darksome  folds.  And  as  he  held  her  sobbing  in  his  arms 
the  light  from  the  chandelier  above  them  streamed  down 
in  golden  radiance  upon  the  broad  white  brow  from 
which  the  fair  hair  waved  away,  fell  across  the  long, 
strangely  dark  eyelashes,  giving  just  a  gleam  of  the 
beautiful  blue  eyes  beneath,  across  the  sweet  red  mouth 
quivering  like  a  grieved  child's.  And  then,  as  he  bent 
forward  tenderly  to  kiss  away  the  tears,  the  girl  had 
drawn  back — not  in  anger,  but  with  an  expression  of  un- 
utterable pain  on  her  face,  and  spoken  the  three  words 
with  which  this  chapter  opens: 

"Good-bye,  McNulty." 

For  an  instant  the  man  could  not  reply.  He  had  not 
felt  such  a  shock  since  meeting  his  father  in  the  giddy 
whirl  of  a,  poker  game  and  going  home  with  nothing  but 
a  contrite  heart  and  a  lead-pencil  to  show  for  his  month's 
wages.  He  still  held  Esmeralda's  hand  in  his,  and  the 
girl  was  looking  up  to  him  with  eyes  that  were  tearless 
now,  but  in  their  depths  there  was  a  look  of  frozen  hor- 
ror, a  my-bustle-has-got-loose  expression,  that  pierced 
his  very  soul.  And  when  he  had  asked  for  an  expla- 
nation of  her  words — not  demanded  it  as  a  right,  but 
pleaded  for  it  as  a  favor — she  had  only  shifted  uneasily 
unto  the  other  foot  and  burst  into  a  storm  of  sobs. 

"  I  can  only  tell  you,"  she  murmured,  when  finally  his 
agonized  entreaties  had  moved  her  to  speech,  "  that  our 
marriage  would  render  your  life  one  of  constant  misery; 
that  it  is  better  we  should  part  now  than  commit  an 
error  which  eternity  alone  could  efface.  You  will  never 
know  how  I  love  you,  Vivian — never  know  the  dreadful 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  191 


agony  that  this  separation  is  causing  me.  God  knows 
I  would  greet  death  with  smiling  face  and  outstretched 
arms  to-morrow,  now  that  you  are  lost  to  me  forever,  for 
what  is  life  without  your  love,  and  presence,  and  kisses, 
but  an  unceasing  torture  ?  If  I  could  love  you  less,  if 
your  love  were  not  enshrined  in  my  heart  as  something 
to  be  worshiped  evermore,  I  would  not  take  this  step. 
It  was  wrong,  very  wrong,  I  know,  to  allow  this  love  to 
overmaster  my  whole  being,  but  it  is  better  to  wreck  one 
life  than  two,  and  so  again  I  say  '  good-bye  v' — and  lift- 
ing her  pure,  sweet  face  to  his,  Esmeralda  kissed  him 
gently  on  the  lips  and  turned  to  go. 

"Stop!  "  exclaimed  Vivian  in  an  imperious,  whoa-Emma 
manner.  "  I  pleaded  with  you  for  an  explanation,  but 
now  I  demand  it.  It  is  my  right,"  and,  drawing  himself 
up  proudly,  he  broke  his  left  suspender. 

"You  speak  truly,"  replied  the  girl.  "An  explanation 
on  my  part  is  due  you.  Know,  then,  that  I  am  a  victim 
of  heredity." 

"Of  what?"  asks  Vivian. 

"  Of  heredity,"  repeats  the  girl. 

"  In  what  respect  ? "  he  demands,  his  voice  hoarse  with 
agony. 

"  I  have,"  said  the  girl,  steadying  herself  against  the 
piano,  "  inherited  my  father's  snore." 


192  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


SOCIAL  TOPICS. 

"Is  this  an  editor?" 

The  horse  reporter  looked  up  from  a  little  idyl  on  the 
life  and  career  of  Rysdyk's  Hambletonian  into  which  he 
had  been  putting  the  best  efforts  of  his  surging  brain, 
and  beheld  a  rather  short  young  man  who  was  peering 
in  an  affable  but  somewhat  irresolute  manner  over  a  very 
high  collar,  and  on  whose  upper  lip  was  a  delicate  tracery 
which  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  effected  with  some 
No.  2  molasses,  and  at  which  the  young  man  was  mak- 
ing furtive  grasps  with  the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  his 
right  hand,  evidently  under  the  impression  that  he  had  a 
mustache  and  desired  to  pull  it. 

"I  want  to  see  an  editor,"  said  the  young  man,  in  a 
voice  that  sounded  like  the  best  efforts  of  a  cricket, 
"about  a  social  topic — I  want  to  see  the  social-topics 
editor." 

"  What  sort  of  a  social  topic  is  it  that's  worrying  you? " 
inquired  the  biographer  of  St.  Julien.  "There  are  a 
good  many  social  topics.  Has  somebody  in  your  social 
circle  been  holding  three  aces  with  criminal  frequency, 
or  has  the  green-eyed  monster  invaded  your  once  happy 
flat  because  your  wife  goes  to  the  matinee?" 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  like  that,"  said  the  young  man.  "I 
promised  papa  that  I  would  never  play  poker,  and  I'm 
not  married — that  is,  not  yet." 

"Well,  the  gentle  sex  is  having  one  lucky  winter,  any- 
how," said  the  horse  reporter,  surveying  the  visitor  care- 
fully. "  If  you'll  quit  grabbing  for  that  supposititious 
mustache  and  tell  me  what  ails  you,  perhaps  I  can  settle 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  193 


the  point.  What's  the  social  topic  you  are  distressed 
about?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  the  young  man,  "when  I  got 
into  the  laces — " 

"  Into  the  what? " 

"  Into  the  laces — the  lace  department  in  our  store,  you 
know — all  the  other  fellows  there  were  real  jealous  of 
me  because  I  had  been  out  more  in  society  than  they 
had.  I  belong  to  three  clubs  on  the  West  Side,  and  we 
have  hops,  and  assemblies  and  things,  every  week;  so 
I'm  really  quite  in  the  swim,  you  know.  Well,  they  were 
awfully  jealous,  you  know — just  as  I  said — and  they 
talked  real  mean.  I  told  Cholly  about  it — Cholly's  my 
chum,  you  know — and  he  said  to  never  mind  them,  but 
keep  going  right  into  society;  and  he  lent  me  his  mauve 
pants  for  an  awfully  swell  reception  one  night  last  week. 
Cholly  and  I  are  awful  chums,  and  I'm  going  to  give  him 
a  book-mark  on  his  birthday.  That  will  be  nice,  won't 
it?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "a  book-mark  is  a  val- 
uable aid  to  any  young  man  who  is  hustling  around  to 
get  a  living.  With  a  strong  arm,  pure  heart,  and  a  nice 
book-mark  fortune  is  within  the  reach  of  all,  But  what's 
the  question  that's  worrying  you? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  social  topic.  Well,  the  other  day  a  lot 
of  us  were  talking  about  young  ladies,  and  I  said  that 
few  young  men  knew  what  real  etiquette  was,  and  I  gave 
an  awfully  severe  look  at  one  fellow  who  has  been  ter- 
ribly jealous  of  me  ever  since  a  young  lady  who  came 
into  the  store  the  other  day  smiled  right  over  in  the  direc- 
tion where  I  was  standing,  and  never  even  looked  at 
him.  And  then  some  one  said  it  was  proper  to  call  on  a, 
13 


194  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


young  lady  and  ask  her  to  accompany  you  to  the  theatre 
that  evening.  I  said  that  would  be  wrong — that  the  cor- 
rect way  was  to  write  the  lady  a  note  asking  the  pleasure  of 
her  company.  We  had  a  terrible  discussion  about  it,  and 
finally  agreed  to  leave  it  to  the  social-topics  editor  of 
THE  TRIBUNE.  Now,  supposing  you  were  a  young  lady, 
and  I  were  to  call  at  your  papa's  house  and  ask  you  to 
go  to  the  theatre  with  me  that  evening,  what  would  you 
do?" 

"Suppose  I  were  a  young  lady?"  said  the  horse  re- 
porter. 

"Yes." 

"  And  you  were  to  call  and  ask  me  to  go  to  the  theatre 
with  you? " 

"Yes." 

"What  would  I  do?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  if  somebody  had  mislaid  the  gun,  I  suppose  I 
should  have  to  content  myself  with  a  club." 


OBITUARY    GEMS. 

Put  away  the  long  blonde  tresses 
That  our  darling  used  to  wear; 

She  will  never,  never  need  them, 
For  our  darling  bangs  her  hair. 


Put  away  the  wooden  boot-jack 
That  our  parent  used  to  shy 

At  the  tomcats  on  the  woodshed. 
Papa's  home  is  in  the  sky. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  195 


Mend  the  hole  in  father's  trousers, 
Soon  they'll  fit  our  oldest  son. 

Frame  the  verdict  for  the  parlor: 
"  Rotten  barrels  in  the  gun." 


Mary,  we  shall  always  miss  you; 

Absent  is  your  pleasant  smile. 
Had  the  oil  can  been  much  larger 

You'd  have  gone  about  a  mile. 


Tie  the  bull  dog  in  the  woodshed; 

1  ,ittle  Johnny's  passed  away. 
Keep  his  checkered  pants  for  brother, 

He  will  fill  them  up  some  day. 


A  St.  Louis  maiden  in  love 
Put  some  kerosene  oil  in  the  stove. 
It  is  thought  that  her  toes 
Were  turned  out  as  she  rose, 
By  the  size  of  the  hole  just  above. 


Give  his  pants  to  Cousin  Tommy, 

And  his  little  silver  cup. 
It  was  in  the  motth  of  August 

Green  corn  curled  our  darling  up. 


Put  away  dear  papa's  slippers 
Underneath  the  cellar  stair; 

Some  St.  Louis  girl  can  wear  them, 
If  her  feet  she'll  only  pare. 


iq6  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


Get  out  Robert's  yellow  trousers, 
Fix  them  up  for  little  Will; 

Brother  went  to  fish  on  Sunday, 
And  his  grave  is  on  the  hill. 

Little  Jim  is  no  more  with  us, 
Let  us  not  bewail  his  fate; 

When  he  sank,  his  cousin  Henry 
Was  away  in  search  of  bait. 


Summer  days  are  swiftly  waning, 
Autumn  tints  are  on  the  leaves; 

Never  tackle  a  green  melon — 

Rupert's  gathering  golden  sheaves. 


Put  away  dear  Arthur's  speller, 
Vacant  is  his  desk  at  school ; 

Tell  his  comrades  that  it's  dangerous 
Playing  tag  behind  a  mule. 


Do  not  cry  for  little  Georgie, 
He  is  in  the  golden  camp; 

Gently  was  he  wafted  upward 
By  the  non-explosive  lamp. 


HOW   TO    REGAIN    HIM. 

"  Is  the  hymeneal-happenings  editor  in?" 

A  very  pretty  young  lady  stood  in  the  doorway  and 

glanced  in  an  appealing  way  at  the  occupants  of   the 

roprn. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  197 


"  Hymeneal  means  something  about  getting  married, 
doesn't  it?"  said  the  horse  reporter. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  young  lady,  "  but  I  don't  want 
to  marry — " 

"Oh,  no;  I  know  you  don't,"  said  the  friend  of  Maud 
S.  "  Girls  never  do.  They  spend  most  of  their  time 
trying  to  escape  from  the  dreadful  abyss  of  matrimony 
into  which  countless  young  men  are  endeavoring  to 
plunge  them." 

"  The  object  of  my  visit,"  said  the  young  lady,  "  is  to 
see  some  editor  in  regard  to  a  poem,  and  it  occurred  to 
me  that  perhaps  the  gentleman  for  whom  I  asked  might 
be  the  person  having  such  matters  in  charge.  I  have 
met  with  a  sad  disappointment,  and  have  written  this 
poem  in  commemoration  of  the  event." 

"  I'm  sorry  he  got  away,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "but 
perhaps  you  were  lucky  to  lose  him.  There  isn't  any- 
thing in  this  poem  about  the  brown  mantle  of  October 
resting  lightly  on  the  hills,  is  there?  or  the  deep  green  of 
the  pines  being  reflected  against  the  turquoise  bloom  of 
an  autumn  sky?  Because  if  there  is,  we  can't  take  it.  There 
is  more  brown-mantle-of-October  poetry  stowed  away  here 
now  than  the  window-cleaner  can  use  in  a  year.  If  you've 
got  anything  about  the  white  messengers  of  heaven  drift- 
ing silently  down  through  the  keen  air,  or  the  gaunt  out- 
line of  the  leafless  oaks  standing  haggard  against  an  un- 
pitying  sky,  we  might  do  business  with  you.  Our  stock 
of  November  poetry  is  rather  light  this  season.  If  you 
could  ring  in  something  about  a  boot-black  dying  on  the 
steps  of  a  banker's  residence  Christmas  eve,  while  inside 
the  house  the  wassail  bowl  was  going  round,  it  would  be 
a  daisy." 


198  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"  I'm  afraid  my  poem  will  hardly  meet  the  require- 
ments you  suggest,"  said  the  young  lady,  "  because  the 
theme  is  a  sad  one,  and  the  treatment  is  naturally  in  ac- 
cord with  this  fact.  I  can  read  it  to  you,  however." 

"Nothing  about  'Put  away  his  little  rattle'  in  it,  is 
there? " 

"No,  sir." 

"  Nor  '  The  beautiful  Summer  is  dead,  alas '  ? " 

"  Certainly  not." 

"Well,  then,  you  may  read  it;"  and  the  horse  reporter 
settled  himself  in  a  critical  attitude. 

The  young  lady  produced  a  roll  of  manuscript  and 
read  as  follows: 

"  And  this  is  the  end  of  all,  Ernest;  the  end  of  our  happy  dreams; 
A  walk  to  the  quiet  graveyard  where  the  snowy  marble  gleams; 
Tablets  of  blighted  hopes,  and  broken  hearts  that  moan 
For  the.ir  buried  loves,  and  the  weary  years  that  must  be  lived  alone. 

"  You  go  back  to  the  world,  Ernest — men's  hearts  so  seldom  break — 
And  under  new  stars,  in  new  skies  set,  soon  other  ties  will  make; 
But  I  go  back  to  a  desolate  life — no  man  can  ever  be, 
Though  I  roam  the  wide  world  over,  what  once  you  were  to  me. 

"\ndthisistheendofall.    Good-bye.    Perhaps  it  had  caused  less  pain 
To  have  gone  our  separate  ways  without  seeing  each  other  again. 
For  want  of  one  little  word,  Ernest,  lives  often  drift  apart; 
You  spoke  that  word,  but  it  came  too  late;  it  only  broke  my  heart." 

"  Nice,  ain't  it?"  remarked  the  horse  reporter  when  the 
reading  was  finished.  "  Are  you  the  girl  that's  been  up 
to  the  graveyard  and  taken  a  look  at  the  tablets  of 
blighted  hopes? " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Ernest  is  going  back  to  the  world,  is  he?  What  has 
he  been  doing  in  St.  Louis  all  this  time?" 

"  I  hardly  think  you  appreciate  the  circumstances 
under  which  this  poem  was  written,"  said  the  young  lady. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  199 


"  Oh,  yes  I  do.  Ernest  is  your  young  man,  and  you 
have  quarreled  with  him  because  he  only  called  you  his 
tootsy-wootsy  eighteen  times,  instead  of  twenty,  as  you 
had  figured  on.  You  think  your  heart  is  broken,  and 
you  want  to  get  even  by  breaking  other  people's  hearts 
with  your  poetry.  That's  wrong.  Just  now  the  world 
seems  desolate,  and  the  horizon  of  your  life  is  o'ercast 
with  leaden  colors.  But  time  heals  all  wounds,  and  in 
about  a  month  from  now,  when  some  other  young  man 
mentions  oysters,  the  chances  are  you  will  beat  the 
record  getting  your  sealskin  jacket  off  the  hat-rack." 

"You  are  very  much  mistaken,  sir,"  said  the  young 
lady.  "My  love  is  no  ephemeral  passion." 

"  Do  you  still  want  Ernest? " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  I  can  tell  you  how  to  get  him." 

"  Oh,  can  you? "  asked  the  girl,  enthusiastically.  "  I 
shall  be  so  thankful  if  you  will." 

"You  take  this  poem,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "and 
send  it  to  him.  Then  drop  him  a  line  saying  the  papers 
have  agreed  to  print  it  for  you.  If  he  doesn't  weaken 
when  it  comes  to  having  his  name  mixed  up  with  a  lot 
of  graveyards,  blighted  hopes,  broken  hearts  and  a  deso- 
late life,  I  shall  miss  my  guess." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so? "  asked  the  girl. 

"  Yes;  really  and  truly." 

"  And  I  will  tell  you  whether  or  not  your  plan  suc- 
ceeds," she  continued. 

"  Never  mind  that  part  of  it,"  replied  the  compiler  of 
the  2:30  list.  "The  scheme  will  work  all  right.  Come 
around  again  after  you  are  married,  and  I  will  give  you 
a  pointer  on  how  to  keep  Ernest  at  home  nights." 


200  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


WHY   HE  WEPT. 

"  Is  this  the  literary  editor  ? " 

The  horse  reporter  looked  up  and  discovered  a 
young  lady  standing  in  the  doorway.  "  No,  madam,"  he 
replied,  "  the  literary  editor  is  at  present  engaged  in  the 
construction  of  an  elaborate  critique  of  the  Trotting  and 
Pacing  Record.  You  will  probably  see  something  in 
next  week's  paper  about  the  idyllic  love-story  of  Maud 
S.  and  St.  Julien,  the  tender  romance  of  Jay-Eye-See, 
and  the  sad,  pathetic  story  of  Early  Rose  and  Aldine. 
You  can  bet  that  when  the  literary  editor  of  this  paper 
gets  his  taper  fingers  on  a  book  he  reviews  it.  I  have 
been  told  that  he  once  turned  himself  loose  on  a  volume 
of  differential  calculus  that  had  just  been  issued,  and 
remarked  that,  while  the  more  frivolous  portion  of  the 
reading  public  might  hold  that  certain  chapters  of  the 
work  were  somewhat  uninteresting,  the  great  moral  lesson 
inculcated  in  regard  to  the  square  of  the  hypothenuse 
should  be  known  to  all,  and  that  to  the  merchant,  the 
farmer,  or  the  young  mother  who  wanted  something 
handy  to  throw  at  the  children  when  they  became  too 
fresh,  this  chaste  volume  would  prove  invaluable.  When 
it  comes  to  giving  a  calm  and  dispassionate  opinion,  in 
which  the  lurid  glare  of  impassioned  genius  is  softened 
and  mellowed  by  the  lambent  rays  of  experience,  THE 
TRIBUNE'S  literary  editor  is  liable  to  beat  the  record  any 
minute.  I  suppose  you  have  an  original  story,  written 
on  white  paper  and  tied  with  blue  ribbon,  concealed  some- 
where about  your  person,  and  want  the  literary  editor  to 
commune  with  it  ? '' 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  20 1 


"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  young  lady.  "I  have  written 
a  story,  and  mamma  thinks  it  is  very  good." 

"  Is  there  anything  in  it  about  the  leaves  turning  to 
golden  and  the  velvety  green  of  the  grass  now  looking 
sere  and  brown  ?  Because  if  there  is,  it  won't  do.  The 
season  for  brown-mantle-of-October-resting-on-the-hills- 
and-leaves-turning-golden  stories  is  about  at  an  end.  We 
have  got  to  carry  over  to  next  season  more  brown-mantle- 
of-October  stuff  than  you  can  shake  a  stick  at.  The- 
dull-red-glow-of-the-dying-embers  racket  is  what  we 
shall  show  the  public  from  now  until  December.  Got 
any  dying  embers  in  your  story? " 

"  No,  sir.     Mine  is  a  love  story." 

"That's  all  right.  The  dull  red  glow  of  dying  embers 
works  in  beautifully  in  a  love  story,  although  as  a  rule 
young  men  who  fall  in  love  don't  have  currency  enough 
to  buy  a  cord  of  wood  to  make  embers  of." 

"  But  why  must  I  write  my  story  in  this  particular 
style? "  asked  the  young  lady. 

"  Because  it's  the  season  for  it.  You  want  to  start  out 
by  saying  that  as  Harold  Nonesuch,  the  rich  banker,  sat 
in  his  magnificently  furnished  parlor  and  gazed  thought- 
fully into  the  dull  red  embers  of  the  dying  fire  in  the  grate, 
there  came  trooping  up  from  the  dim  vista  of  an  almost 
forgotten  past  memories — sad,  sad  memories — that  caused 
the  unbidden  tear  to  start.  Don't  make  any  mistake  about 
the  tear  business.  Be  sure  to  have  only  one  tear,  because 
that's  the  orthodox  style  in  stories.  Of  course,  nobody 
but  one-eyed  men  could  shed  one  tear  at  a  crack  unless 
he  had  plugged  up  one  of  his  lachrymal  ducts,  but  in 
novels  it  is  always  put  that  way.  And  you  want 
to  be  certain  that  it  is  an  unbidden  tear.  A  tear  that 


202  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


had  received  a  cordial  invitation  to  be  present  and 
start,  wouldn't  do  at  all.  Then  say  that  the  old  man's 
thoughts  wandered  back  to  the  happy  days  of  his  child- 
hood. Be  certain  to  have  them  wander  back,  going 
across-lots  and  stopping  once  in  a  while  to  pick  sand-burs 
out  of  their  toes.  If  you  were  to  say  that  his  thoughts 
went  back,  the  story  would  be  spoiled.  '  Wander '  is  the 
correct  style.  Then,  when  you  get  the  old  man  back  to 
his  happy  boyhood  days,  you  want  to  trot  out  Lucy." 

"  Trot  out  who  ? " 

"  Lucy — Little  Lucy  Perkins — with  her  great  blue  eyes 
and  golden  hair — the  playmate  of  his  youth  that  he 
loved  so  dearly  and  always  looked  upon  as  his  future 
wife.  Then  lug  out  another  unbidden  tear,  and  finally 
have  the  old  man  break  down  in  a  storm  of  sobs." 

"  It's  very  sad,  isn't  it  ? "  said  the  young  lady.  "  Lucy 
died,  I  suppose,  and  the  old  man's  heart  is  breaking." 

"  No,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "  Lucy  married  another 
man." 

"  Then  what  makes  the  banker  weep  ? "  inquired  the 
maiden. 

"  Sympathy  for  the  other  man." 


HAUNTED    BY    THE    SPEECH. 

It  was  a  college  graduate  full  hopefully  that  said: 

"  To-morrow  I  into  the  world  go  forth  to  seek  my  bread. 

I  would  not  be  a  farmer  lad,  and  speed  the  gleaming  plow, 

Ride  on  the  patent  hay-rake,  or  milk  the  blithesome  cow ; 

A  horny-handed  son  of  toil  is  well  enough,  but  I 

At  something  worthy  of  great  minds  my  surging  brain  would  try." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  203 


At  middle  hour  of  sweet  June  day  an  elevator  bore 

A  tall,  slim  youth,  with  cigarette,  up  to  an  editor. 

"  I  fain  would  be  a  journalist,  and  heights  Olympian  reach," 

He  said,  "and  so  have  brought  along  my  graduating  speech; 

Which  you  may  print,  good  editor,  to-morrow,  an'  you  will, 

Nor  any  pay  give  unto  me  unless  it  fills  the  bill." 

A  wistful,  weary,  longing  look,  like  unto  that  with  which 
The  storm-chilled  beggar  in  the  street  regards  the  fur-clad  rich, 
Passed  swiftly  o'er  a  classic  face — the  editor  his  hand 
Pressed  quickly  on  a  silver  bell,  it  tinkled  softly,  and 
There  stepped  from  out  another  room  a  man  of  mighty  mein — 
A  Grreco- Roman  wrestler,  or  a  prize-fighter,  I  ween. 

***#**** 

Within  his  cerements  of  white  the  graduate  doth  lie; 

A  look  of  peaceful  calm  is  in  the  editor's  blue  eye ; 

He  bends  low  o'er  a  manuscript  sent  in  by  the  latest  mail, 

When  suddenly  his  brow  contracts,  his  ruddy  cheeks  grow  pale. 

For  this  is  how  the  item  reads:  ''  Our  noble  boy  is  gone; 

We  send  his  graduating  speech — please  print  it  in  the  morn." 


THE   STORY  OF  CHARLES. 

Charles  was  a  little  boy  who  loved  his  Mother  dearly, 
and  whenever  she  told  him  anything  he  was  very  careful 
to  Obey. 

One  day  in  Spring  when  the  birds  were  singing  and  the 
buds  on  the  apple  trees  were  almost  ready  to  burst  into 
beautiful  white  blossoms,  Charles  asked  his  mother  for 
Ten  Cents  to  buy  Marbles,  for  the  ground  was  getting 
dry  and  the  other  boys  were  beginning  to  enjoy  their 
Favorite  Sport.  "  You  can  have  the  money,  my  son,"  said 


204  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


the  Mother,  "but  you  must  promise  me  not  to  play  for 
Keeps,  and  every  night  that  you  can  come  home  and  tell 
me  truthfully  that  you  have  not  disobeyed  your  Mamma, 
I  will  give  you  a  Large  Red  Apple."  And  then  she 
kissed  him  Fondly,  and  he  went  gaily  away  to  School. 

But  before  Charles  had  gone  very  far  he  met  Thomas 
Tough,  who  was  a  Bad  boy.  Charles  told  Thomas  about 
the  Ten  Cents  that  his  Mother  had  given  him  to  buy 
Marbles  with,  and  also  told  him  that  he  could  not  play 
for  Keeps  unless  he  was  willing  to  lose  the  Red  Apple. 

When  Thomas  heard  this,  he  said:  "Give  me  the 
Marbles  that  you  are  going  to  buy,  and  I  will  play  with 
them  for  Keeps,  and  after  school  is  out  we  will  Divide 
what  I  have  won,  for  I  am  a  Superior  Player.  Then  you 
can  truthfully  tell  your  mother  that  you  have  not  been 
playing  for  Keeps,  and  will  receive  the  Red  Apple." 

So  Charles  gave  his  Marbles  to  Thomas,  and  after 
School  was  out  he  asked  him  how  many  Marbles  he  had 
Won. 

"I  did  not  Win,"  replied  Thomas.  "I  struck  a  Hard 
Crowd,  and  lost." 

Then  Charles  was  sad,  for  he  was  a  pretty  Tight- 
Fisted  little  boy,  and  began  to  Cry.  But  presently  he 
said  to  Thomas:  "You  are  a  naughty  boy,  and  I  hate 
you  Very  Much." 

And  then  Thomas  hit  Charles  on  the  Nose,  and  threw 
him  down  in  the  Dirt,  making  his  new  panties  look  very 
bad  indeed. 

So  when  Charles  reached  home  he  told  his  Papa  all 
about  his  troubles.  When  he  had  finished,  his  Papa  said 
to  him:  "You  don't  know  as  much  as  Thompson's  colt, 
and  I  am  going  to  Take  a  Crack  at  you  myself." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  205 


Then  he  gave  Charles  a  good  Licking  and  sent  him  to 
bed  without  any  supper.  And  when  Charles  had  lain  on 
his  Stomach  for  a  while,  because  he  felt  more  Comfort- 
able that  way,  he  said  to  himself:  "  No  more  Blind  Pools 
for  me." 

Do  you  not  think  he  had  a  Great  Head,  children?    I  do. 


One  day  when  little  Charles,  the  good  boy  of  whom  I 
have  told  you,  was  on  his  way  to  School,  he  passed  by  a 
large  Orchard  in  which  there  were  a  great  many  kinds 
of  Fruit,  and  as  the  sunshine  came  streaming  through 
the  branches  of  the  Trees  and  fell  upon  the  rosy-cheeked 
Apples,  the  sweet,  mellow  Peaches  and  the  red  Cherries, 
Charles  thought  they  looked  very  Beautiful  indeed,  and 
would  Go  Down  Nicely  with  the  Lunch  which  his  kind 
Mother  had  wrapped  up  in  a  white  napkin  for  him,  and 
placed  in  the  little  Basket  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

Some  of  the  Fruit  hung  very  near  the  Fence,  and  as 
Charles  looked  at  it  Wistfully  he  said  to  himself :  "  How 
easily  I  could  climb  over  there  and  pluck  several  of  the 
Apples  and  Pears  without  being  Discovered,  for  there  is 
no  one  in  the  Orchard  now.  But  that  would  be  Wrong, 
and  if  I  did  I  should  always  be  Sorry,  and  surfer  dread- 
fully from  the  Pangs  of  Conscience." 

So  he  stood  there  a  little  longer.  The  little  Birds  in 
the  trees  were  singing  their  Merriest  Lays,  the  soft  and 
balmy  Zephyrs  of  early  summer  were  Kissing  the  Flow- 
ers as  they  nodded  their  pretty  heads  in  the  grass  by  the 
roadside,  and  all  Nature  seemed  Rejoicing  in  its  Strength. 

Many  times  Charles  looked  up  at  the  Fruit  and  thought 
how  easy  it  would  be  to  take  it,  but  every  time  he  did 
this  the  Small  Voice  would  say,  "  That  would  be  wrong, 


206  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


Charles,"  and  he  would  resolve  not  to  make  any  such 
Break. 

But  pretty  soon  a  Bright  Thought  struck  him,  and  his 
pure  young  face  lighted  up  with  a  Sunny  Smile.  "  I  will 
go  to  the  Owner  of  the  Orchard,  who  lives  in  yonder 
House,  and  tell  him  how  I  have  conquered  Temptation. 
Then  he  will  give  me  all  the  Fruit  I  want,  because  that 
is  the  way  Sturdy  Farmers  always  do  in  the  little  books  I 
get  at  Sunday-School." 

So  he  went  boldly  up  to  the  farm-house,  but  just  as  he 
entered  the  Gate  a  fierce  Dog  grabbed  him  by  the  seat 
of  his  Panties,  and  Wiped  the  Ground  with  him  for  a  few 
moments.  The  nice  Lunch  that  his  mother  had  put  up 
for  him  was  Distributed  all  over  the  Yard,  and  his  new 
jacket  looked  as  if  it  had  been  Out  With  the  Boys. 
When  the  Farmer  heard  the  Noise  he  came  running  out 
of  the  House,  and  called  off  the  Dog. 

"What  do  you  want,  my  Little  Man?"  he  said  to 
Charles. 

So  Charles  told  him  he  had  been  tempted  to  take  the 
Fruit,  but  would  not  do  so  because  it  was  Wrong.  And 
then  he  asked  the  man  for  some  Fruit. 

The  Farmer  looked  at  him  for  a  Moment  and  then  he 
said:  "  I  have  two  more  Dogs,  both  larger  than  the  one 
you  Tackled,  and  unless  you  are  out  of  here  in  Three 
Jerks  of  a  Lamb's  Tail,  they  will  be  Lunching,  and  you 
will  be  Quite  Conspicuous  in  the  bill-of-fare." 

So  Charles  ran  quickly  away,  not  even  stopping  to  get 
his  Basket.  A  little  way  down  the  Road  he  overtook 
Thomas  Tough,  who  was  eating  a  Delicious  Peach. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  Peach,  Thomas? "  asked 
Charles, 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  207 


"  Over  in  that  Orchard,"  replied  Thomas.  "  I  waited 
until  the  Old  Crank  who  owns  the  place  had  gone  to 
Breakfast,  and  then  appointed  myself  Receiver  of  the 
Orchard." 

"You  are  a  very  wicked  Boy,"  said  Charles. 

"Yes,"  said  Thomas,  "  I  am  a  trifle  wicked,  but  I  keep 
Getting  to  the  Front  all  the  time,  and  my  clothes  don't 
seem  quite  so  much  Disarranged  as  yours.  You  will 
also  notice  that  my  Lunch  Basket  is  with  me,  and  that 
my  piece  of  Pie  for  the  Noonday  Meal  is  not  lying  in 
Farmer  Brown's  Garden." 

When  Charles  went  home  that  evening  he  told  his 
Papa  what  he  had  done.  "  You  know,  Papa,"  he  said, 
"that  I  would  sooner  be  right  than  President." 

"Yes,"  replied  his  Papa,  "but  I  am  not  seriously 
alarmed  about  your  being  President,  either." 


COULDN'T  LOSE  HIM. 

"  You  do  not  doubt  me,  Myrtle? " 

"  Never! "  exclaimed  the  girl,  putting  on  her  invisible 
net  as  she  spoke  and  placing  her  bandoline  bottle  where 
she  would  be  sure  to  see  it  in  the  morning. 

The  sun  had  glared  down  fiercely  all  day  upon  the 
parched  earth,  and  now  that  night  had  come  the  heat 
was  even  more  oppressive  than  ever,  because  the  cool 
wind  that  had  been  wafted  from  the  lake  during  the  day 
had  died  away.  It  was  a  dreamy,  sensuous,  one-gauze- 


208  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


undershirt-and-no-vest  evening,  such  as  one  often 
notices  while  traveling  in  Palestine. 

"You  have  great  faith  in  me,  have  you  not,  little  one?" 
Vivian  McCarthy  said,  taking  the  girl's  off  hand  in  his. 

"Yes,"  replied  Myrtle,  "  I  believe  in  you  with  a  child- 
like faith  akin  to  that  which  enables  a  boy  to  bite  a  pie 
in  the  dark,  and  I  love  you  with  a  deep  tenderness  and 
fair  loyalty  that  can  never  die." 

"  And  would  you  believe  anything  I  told  you?  "  Vivian 
murmured,  kissing  the  dimpled  hand  that  lay  in  his. 

Looking  at  him  with  her  starry  eyes,  in  which  there 
gleamed  a  holy  love-light,  the  girl  replied,  slowly,  and 
with  infinite  pathos:  "  I  would  believe  your  every  word, 
no  matter  what  you  told  me." 

"Then,"  said  Vivian,  while  a  oaleful  light  shot  from 
his  near  eye,  "  there  is  no  ice  cream  in  Chicago." 

For  an  instant  dazed  by  the  shock,  Myrtle  did  not 
speak.  But  presently  the  voice  of  her  heart  found  echo 
in  words. 

"  I  can  not  leave  you  now,"  she  whispered.  "  There 
can  not  be  another  such  liar  in  all  the  wide,  wide 
world." 


LOVE  AND   COOKING. 

"  Do  you  like  pie?" 

It  was  in  summer  that  Gwendolen  Mahaffy  spoke  these 
words  to  Ethelbert  Quirkson,  as  they  sauntered  back 
from  the  croquet-ground  to  the  house.  Gwendolen  had 
hit  her  corn  instead  of  a  croquet  ball,  and  as  the  blow 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  209 


fell  there  came  to  her  such  a  feeling  of  desolate  loneli- 
ness, such  a  wistful  yearning  to  howl  and  swear,  that  she 
had  looked  into  Ethelbert's  eyes  with  her  own  dusky 
orbs  and  said,  in  the  low,  musical  voice  whose  every  tone 
thrilled  Ethelbert  with  a  sweet,  rapturous,  three-for-fifty- 
cent  thrill,  that  she  really  must  go  and  help  her  dear 
mamma  get  supper — she  loved  so  dearly  to  help  in  all 
household  matters,  that  mamma  had  often  said  that  who- 
ever got  her  for  a  wife  would  never  need  to  hire  a  girl — 
and  a  merry  laugh  was  trilled  forth  from  between  the 
wine-red  lips  that  Ethelbert  had  so  often  made  up  his 
mind  to  kiss,  and  then  weakened  when  the  time  came. 

He  bent  tenderly  and  lovingly  over  her  now,  listening 
to  every  word  she  said,  and  believing  it  all.  Nothing 
could  have  shaken  his  faith  in  the  girlish  innocence  of 
Gwendolen,  and  he  loved  her  with  a  passionate  adoration 
that  knew  no  bounds.  To  him  she  was  perfection — what- 
ever she  did  was  right,  and  whatever  she  said  was  his 
gospel. 

It  is  even  betting  that  he  didn't  know  her  front  hair 
was  a  bang. 

Reared  amid  the  solitudes  of  St.  Louis,  and  having 
only  nature  for  a  companion  and  teacher,  his  child-like 
faith  was  not  to  be  wondered  at. 

"Yes,  Gwennie,  dear,"  he  said,  "  I  am  very  fond  of  pie." 

"  And  do  you  love  me  as  much  to-day  as  you  did  Tues- 
day?" she  asked,  changing  the  subject  in  her  impulsive, 
North-Side  way. 

"Better,  far  better,  my  darling,"  Ethelbert  replied,  in 
tones  that  were  tremulous  with  tenderness.  "  My  love 
for  you  shall  never  falter,  never  fade,  but  always  be 
greater,  stronger  and  more  beautiful  than  before.  Into 

14 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


that  love  I  have  woven  the  best  efforts  of  my  life,  and  she 
to  whom  it  is  devoted  shall  ever  be  the  shrine  at  which 
my  soul  shall  worship." 

Unfortunately,  there  was  nobody  with  a  club  in  the  im- 
mediate vicinity. 

"  I  can  make  pies,"  said  Gwendolen,  smiling  archly  as 
she  spoke. 

"  Can  you,  darling? " — this  in  low,  earnest  tones. 

"Why,  of  course,"  responded  the  girl. 

"  Then,"  said  Ethelbert,  calmly  but  firmly,  "  don't  do 
it.  Somebody  you  liked  might  accidentally  eat  one  of 
them." 

Ethelbert  now  has  a  second-hand  engagement  ring  for 
sale  cheap. 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO  WITH  OUR  PIANOS? 

"  You  can  not  have  my  daughter,  sir." 

These  words  were  spoken  in  a  stern  tone  by  John 
McWhirter,  the  rich  banker,  to  Arthur  Ainsleigh,  a  noble- 
looking  young  man  of  twenty-two  autumns,  who  stood 
in  a  haughtily-defiant  attitude  before  the  purse-proud 
millionaire  whose  pedigree  traced  back  to  a  packing-house, 
while  Arthur's  ancestors  were  among  the  earliest  gaugers 
in  the  country.  But  misfortunes  and  revenue  officers  had 
overtaken  many  of  them,  and  the  family  estates  had  long 
since  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  lawyers  who  defended 
the  cases. 

"  Beware,  old  man,"  said  Arthur.  "  Some  day  you  will 
bitterly  repent  this  action.  Mabel  and  I  love  each  other 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  2  1 1 


dearly.  Nothing  but  death  can  separate  us " — and  as 
the  front  door  clanged  heavily  at  his  back,  the  tear- 
stained  face  of  Mabel  might  have  been  seen  peering 

over  the  balusters. 

******* 

The  year  strode  on  apace. 

It  might  just  as  well  have  gone  on  a  trot,  but  it  pre- 
ferred to  pace. 

Mabel  knew  this.  She  also  knew  that  it  would  be 
necessary  ere  long  to  have  a  new  bonnet  and  some  Easter 
hose  and  things.  But  she  did  not  despair.  Often  when 
her  mother  came  unexpectedly  into  the  room  and  found 
her  weeping  she  would  pass  the  matter  off  lightly,  say- 
ing it  was  only  a  book  she  had  been  reading  that  made 
her  feel  bad.  "  I  must  not  give  it  away,"  she  would  say 
to  herself.  "  My  darling  mamma  has  enough  to  bear, 
figuring  to  get  a  sealskin  sacque  out  of  the  old  gent; 
heaven  forbid  that  I  should  add  to  her  weight  of 

woe." 

******* 

Arthur  was  sick. 

Sicker  than  a  horse. 

(Who  originated  this  comparison  ?  Nobody  knows;  it 
is  something  that  has  come  down  to  us  from  the  dim 
vista  of  the  past,  when  horses  were  worth  more  than  men. 
Dim  vista  is  a  good  expression  to  ring  in  on  the  un- 
suspecting reader.  It  makes  him  think  you  are  pretty 
fly  on  language.) 

Arthur  was  deadly  pale.  He  thought  his  time  had 
come.  There  was  a  rap  at  the  door;  a  man  came  in. 
He  had  a  bottle  of  pickles. 

Arthur  was  saved. 


212  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


There  is  nothing  like  pickles  to  sober  up  on. 
******* 

Mabel  sat  at  the  piano,  her  fingers  wandering  listlessly 
over  the  keys.  Suddenly  she  began  to  play  in  a  weird, 
melancholy  strain  that  reminded  one  of  a  fugue.  There 
is  nothing  so  weird  as  a  fugue,  well  played.  It  beats  a 
dog  for  keeping  people  away  from  the  house.  The  girl's 
father  entered  the  house  unperceived,  and  stood  silently 
in  the  parlor  door  gazing  at  his  child.  Suddenly  the 
music  ceased,  and  Mabel  sat  looking  wistfully  out  of  the 
window.  Once  again  she  turned  to  the  piano,  and  as  the 
first  notes  of  "  Empty  is  the  Cradle,  Baby's  Gone," 
reached  the  old  man,  he  went  sadly  away.  Every  man 
has  his  limit.  Mabel  had  not  seen  him,  and  sang  the 
song  through.  On  rising  from  the  piano  she  noticed  her 
sire's  overshoes  in  the  front  hall,  and  knew  that  he  must 
have  heard  her  singing 

"Good  heavens!"  she  exclaimed,  a  sense  of  her  po- 
sition flashing  across  her  mind — •'  I  have  cooked  my 

goose,  now,  for  sure." 

******* 

The  next  night  Arthur  again  asked  for  Mabel's  hand. 
For  an  instant  her  father  hesitated,  but  just  then  his  eyes 
wandered  idly  to  the  piano,  and  he  saw  in  the  rack  a 
piece  of  music.  "Take  her,  my  boy,"  he  said  suddenly 
and  earnestly  to  Arthur.  "  Heaven  help — no,  bless 
you." 

Can  you  guess  what  that  piece  of  music  was? 

I  should  blush  to  giggle. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  213 


BOSTON  VOLUPTUOUSNESS. 

"  Do  you  speak  Greek  ? " 

George  W.  Simpson  looks  up  at  Minerva  Stiggins  in 
the  frank,  blue-jay-on-the-fence  manner  so  character- 
istic of  Western  people,  and  answers  her  only  by  a  quiet, 
dreamy  smile  that  tells  with  far  more  eloquence  than 
could  any  words  that  he  does  not  conceive  her  question 
to  have  been  put  in  earnest.  And  then,  as  the  sighing 
winds  of  autumn  sweep  softly  over  the  veranda  on 
which  they  are  sitting,  bringing  with  them  a  faint,  sensu- 
ous perfume  of  New  England  rum  and  XX  mackerel,  he 
recalls  the  fact  that  he  is  far,  far  away  from  the  home  of 
his  childhood,  and  that  the  one  beside  whom  he  is  sitting 
was  born  in  this  town  whose  quaint  old  houses  and  girls 
who  say  piano-limb  are  cast  into  strange  relief  by  the  daily 
presence  of  two  beings  whose  lives  jut  out  boldly  into 
history  and  whose  influence  on  the  higher  influence  of 
the  century  will  be  felt  long  after  they  have  passed  away 
or  been  ordered  up — Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  and  John  L. 
Sullivan. 

And  so,  starting  suddenly  from  his  reverie,  he  looks  at 
Minerva  only  to  notice  that  the  tears  are  coursing  silently 
down  her  cheeks,  and  that  her  bosom,  rounded  and  vo- 
luptuous as  a  knife-blade,  is  shaken  by  a  storm  of  sobs. 
He  sees  also  that  she  is  chewing  gum  with  a  mad,  pas- 
sionate energy  that  tells  its  own  story  of  terrible  grief, 
and  his  whole  heart  goes  out  in  a  flood  of  love  and  sym- 
pathy towards  this  beautiful  being  whose  eye-glasses  are 
wet  with  the  saline  evidences  of  her  overwhelming  sor- 
row. Stepping  close  beside  Minerva,  and  putting  a  has- 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


sock  between  them,  so  that  the  soft,  rounded  curves  of 
her  Venus-like  form  may  not  bruise  him,  he  twines  one 
arm  tenderly  about  her  taper  waist  and  feels  as  if  he  were 
about  to  carry  off  a  watering-pot  in  full  operation. 

Presently  he  bends  his  head  a  little  and  whispers  softly 
in  her  pink-tinted  ear.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you, 
my  darling,"  says  he.  "I  love  my  little  Natural  History 
— girl,  I  mean — far  too  well  for  that.  My  whole  being  is 
wrapped  up  in  your  life,  and  without  it  my  life  would  be  as 
aimless  and  dreary  as  a  St.  Louis  joke.  Such  a  love  as 
ours  can  not,  must  not  be  destroyed.  It  would  be  a  cruel 
wrong  to  throw  the  black  pall  of  disappointment  over  a 
passion  that  might  so  easily  wear  the  stars  of  joy.  You 
must  fly  with  me,  Minerva,  fly  to  the  golden  West,  and 
there,  amid  the  beauties  which  nature  has  showered  with 
lavish  hand  upon  the  face  of  Mother  Earth,  decking  each 
feature  with  a  garland  of  her  own  making,  we  will  while 
away  the  hours  together,  our  love  making  the  days  pass 
on  golden  wings,  while  every  passing  zephyr  shall  bear 
with  it  our  peans  of  joy  at  being  forever  united.  Do  not 
scorn  my  proffered  love,  Minerva,  but  say  that  you  will 
make  my  whole  life  a  great,  holy,  three-story-and-base- 
ment  joy  " — and  dropping  the  hassock  that  had  hereto- 
fore fended  her  off,  George  clasps  the  blushing  but  largely 
osseous  girl  to  his  vest. 

And  so  they  stand  there — he  too  much  out  of  breath 
to  break  the  silence,  and  she  too  blissfully  happy  in  the 
knowledge  of  his  love  to  say  the  words  that  are  welling 
up  from  her  Massachusetts  soul.  George  can  feel  her 
heart  beating  against  his,  feel  the  throbbing  bunion  on 
her  left  foot,  and  a  still,  small  voice,  like  that  announcing 
the  vote  for  Hayes  in  case  he  should  run  for  President 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  215 


again,  tells  him  that  the  answer  to  his  pleadings  will  be  a 
favorable  one.  Bending  again,  he  imprints  a  chaste,  His- 
torical-Society kiss  just  abaft  her  larboard  ear,  and  waits 
for  an  instant  until  he  can  recover  from  the  shock. 

"Am  I  to  receive  no  answer,  my  precious  one?"  he 
murmurs,  laying  his  cheek  against  her  bang  as  he  speaks. 
"Can  you  not  whisper  your  answer  in  my  ear?" 

The  girl  looks  up,  and  placing  her  ruby-red  lips  in 
front  of  his  Hoosac-tunnel  ear,  says:  "  I  would  follow  you, 

my  Prince,  to  the  end  of  the  world." 

******* 

A  year  has  passed.  So  has  a  man  who  sits  to  the  left 
of  the  dealer  in  a  Chicago  poker  game. 

That  man  is  George  W.  Simpson. 

In  the  richly-furnished  parlor  of  a  turreted  boarding- 
house  that  flecks  the  horizon  on  La  Salle  avenue  sits 
Minerva  Stiggins,  the  bride  of  twelvemonth.  She  is 
peering  anxiously  out  into  the  darkness.  Presently  a 
form  approaches  the  house,  and  she  hastens  to  the  door 
to  admit  her  husband. 

"  Hello,  Min!  "  he  says  in  a  cheery  voice.  "What  are 
you  up  so  late  for? " 

"  I  am  waiting  for  you,"  she  answers.  "  I  wish  to  have 
a  talk  with  you,"  and  she  leads  the  way  into  the  parlor. 

George  seats  himself  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  Minerva, 
twining  her  arms  around  his  neck,  prepares  to  perch  on 
his  knee. 

"  Not  there! "  he  cries  hoarsely. 

"Why  not?"  exclaims  the  girl.  "Why  may  I  not  be 
folded  in  the  embrace  of  the  one  man  whom  I  love? " 

"  Because,"  he  replies,  in  a  tone  that  bespeaks  his  ear- 
nestness, "  I  do  not  wish  to  be  frost-bitten." 


2i6  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


FISHING    AND    MATRIMONY. 

"Can  I  come  in?"  asked  a  young  lady  as  she  opened 
the  door  of  the  editorial  room. 

"  I  suppose  you  can,"  replied  the  horse  reporter,  "un- 
less you  have  been  suddenly  stricken  with  paralysis  or 
some  other  disease  that  prevents  you  from  putting  one 
foot  in  front  of  the  other.  You  will  have  to  let  go  of 
that  door-knob  first,  though." 

Encouraged  by  this  kindly  greeting,  the  young  lady 
entered  the  room  and  seated  herself. 

"  I  want  some  advice,"  she  said,  "  but  I  hardly  know — " 
and  here  the  young  lady  blushed  violently  and  began 
regarding  the  floor  with  great  attention. 

"It's  about  getting  married,  isn't  it?"  asked  the  horse 
reporter. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  I  thought  so.  The  hesitating,  don't-know-whether- 
I-had-better-buy-ice-cream-or-caramels  -with  -  my  -  money 
look  on  your  countenance  told  me  that  at  once.  What 
is  the  difficulty  in  your  case?" 

"  Well,"  said  the  young  lady,  "  I  am  engaged  to  a 
young  man — 

"I  supposed  it  was  a  man,"  said  the  horse  reporter. 
"Go  ahead." 

"And  he  says,"  she  continued,  "that  we  ought  to  be 
married  right  away.  Do  you  think  June  is  a  good  month 
for  weddings?" 

"  There  is  no  doubt  about  June  being  the  boss  month 
to  get  married  in,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "because  we 
most  always  have  regular  old  honey-moon  weather  then, 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  217 


so  that  everything  seems  to  jibe  right  in  with  the  occa- 
sion— a  sort  of  beautiful  unison  of  nature  and  thought. 
Do  you  catch  on?" 

The  young  lady  inclined  her  head. 

"You  see,  in  June,"  resumed  the  adherent  of  Maud 
S.,  "  everything  looks  pretty  smooth.  The  first  blossoms 
of  the  early  summer — beautiful  harbingers  of  the  wealth 
of  bud  that  is  to  come — are  trembling  on  their  stalks; 
the  birds  are  singing  as  if  in  very  glee  from  every  branch 
and  bough;  the  perfect  light  of  the  turquoise-tinted  sky 
is  reflected  from  an  air  that  is  pure  and  balmy  as  the 
breath  of  a  perfumed  houri  from  Circassia,  while  the 
newly-plowed  fields,  fresh  kissed  by  the  dews  of 
heaven  and  warmed  by  the  kindly  rays  of  the  sun,  are 
holding  within  the  bosom  of  the  earth  the  many  seeds 
that  ere  another  month  shall  have  come  and  gone  will 
spring  up  to  life  and  light,  growing  stronger  and  more 
perfect  with  ever}'  gladsome  day,  until  in  autumn,  when 
the  leaves,  touched  with  the  blighting  breath  of  the  first 
frost,  are  being  transformed  into  all  the  vivid  hues  that  tell 
so  eloquently  the  story  of  nature's  wondrous  handiwork, 
the  very  earth  shall  laugh  in  the  glory  of  an  abundant 
harvest.  What  time  than  this  could  be  more  fit  for  young 
hearts  to  plight  a  willing  troth — hearts  strong  in  love 
that  shall  never  know  surcease  or  change,  that  shall  be 
more  steadfast  and  trusting  with  every  hour,  until  when 
the  autumn  of  life  is  reached  the  strong,  willful  passion 
of  youth  becomes  a  ripened,  tender,  holy  affection  that 
is  beautiful  beyond  compare.  It  is  when  the  tresses  that 
were  once  brown  are  flecked  with  gray;  when  the  cheeks 
once  peachy  and  dimpled  are  marked  by  the  furrows  that 
grief  and  care  have  made;  when  the  eyes  that  in  the  days 


218  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


agone  sparkled  with  such  witching  merriment  are  dull 
and  lustreless — it  is  then  that  the  love  of  a  truly  happy 
married  life  should  be  crowned  with  the  halo  of  a  tran- 
quil existence  that  knows  no  sorrow  or  care.  Yes,  my 
bonny  lass,  you  should  get  married  in  June — month  of 
roses  and  race-meetings.  Go  to  him  who  has  won  your 
young  love,  and  say  to  him  that  the  glad  fruition  of  his 
hopes  has  come  at  last.  Seek  with  him  some  ivy-crowned 
chapel,  and  there,  amid  the  solemn  hush  that  so  well 
befits  the  occasion,  let  a  mitred  bishop  make  you  one." 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  young  lady.     "  Good-day." 

"So  long,"  replied  the  horse  reporter. 

As  the  girl  departed  a  man  entered  the  room.  "  I  am 
thinking  of  taking  a  fishing  trip,"  he  said,  "  and  wanted 
to  inquire  in  what  month  suckers  bite  the  best." 

"June,"  promptly  replied  the  horse  reporter. 


TENDER    AND    TRUE. 

"Be  brave,  Beryl." 

The  north  wind  was  howling  fiercely  through  the 
cordage  of  a  staunch  vessel  as  she  dashed  madly  through 
the  seething  waters  that  stretched  away  from  her  on 
every  side  in  desolate  fury.  Now  poised  on  the  crest  of 
a  great  green  billow,  and  anon  plunged  into  a  watery 
depth  that  seemed  to  end  only  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 
the  good  ship  struggled  bravely  with  the  mighty  forces 
of  the  tempest,  but  though  her  timbers  might  groan  in 
almost  human  agony,  there  'vas  no  parting  of  the  seams, 


LAKESIDE  MUSIHGS.  2 1 9 


no  weakening  of  the  bolts  that  held  deck  and  bulwark 
together  in  so  firm  a  clasp. 

It  was  Beryl  McCloskey's  wedding  trip.  Two  days 
agone  she  had  been  joined  in  wedlock's  holy  bonds  to 
George  W.  Simpson,  and  her  mother  had  consented  to 
go  with  them  on  their  bridal  journey.  It  was  her  loving 
arm  that  supported  Beryl  now,  her  kindly  voice  that 
spoke  the  words  with  which  this  chapter  opens. 

"  George  can  not  love  me,  mamma,"  the  girl  said,  speak- 
ing in  low,  mellow  tones,  "or  he  would  be  at  my  side 
now,  when  I  need  him  so  sorely." 

"  Do  not  judge  hastily,  my  child,"  replied  the  mother. 
"  George  is  pretty  busy.  Even  now  I  see  him  leaning 
over  the  vessel's  side." 

"  Is  he  then  so  very,  very  sick? "  asked  Beryl. 

"Quite  very,"  said  Mrs.  McCloskey. 

"  Has  he  thrown  up  his  situation?" 

"  No,  my  darling." 

"Then,"  said  the  girl,  a  holy  love-light  illumining  her 
pure  young  face,  "  I  will  never  leave  him." 


A  NEW  ENGLAND   ROMANCE. 

"Good-bye,  papa." 

The  plump  white  arms  of  Erica  Brown  were  thrown 
about  her  father's  neck,  and  the  pretty  face  with  its  riant 
mouth  and  cunning  dimples  was  pressed  closely  to  the 
bronzed  cheek  of  the  farmer  as  he  stood  in  the  kitchen 
doorway  a  moment  before  going  out  to  his  daily  toil. 


220  LAKESrDE  MUSINGS. 


"  I  am  going  to  plow  the  south  meadow  this  morning, 
my  darling,"  he  said  to  the  girl,  "and  when  noon  comes 
you  must  have  my  accounts  as  treasurer  of  the  church  all 
arranged,  because  the  building  committee  will  be  here 
after  dinner,  and  I  am  to  turn  over  the  money  in  my 
hands,  so  that  the  erection  of  the  new  church  in  the  little 
dell  just  beyond  where  we  buried  that  mouse-colored 
heifer  two  years  ago  last  spring  can  be  commenced  at 
once."  And  kissing  his  daughter  again,  Farmer  Brown 
took  a  bite  of  hard  tobacco  and  went  away  into  the  glad 

sunlight. 

******* 

The  petals  of  the  June  roses  had  fallen  like  a  pink  car- 
pet along  the  edge  of  the  woods,  contrasting  prettily  with 
the  vivid  green  of  the  grass  and  leaves.  Above  the  hum 
of  insects  and  the  twittering  of  the  birds  rose  the  sturdy 
voice  of  Farmer  Brown,  swearing  at  the  off  mule.  "  Get 
up,  darn  it!  "  he  said.  But  the  mule  only  waved  his  ear 
in  a  sensuous,  languid  fashion,  and  looked  wistfully  into 
the  next  meadow  where  the  starry-eyed  kine  were  grazing, 
and  the  old  sorrel  mare  that  had  a  splint  on  her  near 
front  leg  was  quaffing  the  incense  of  the  new-born  day. 
Picking  up  a  short  stick,  the  farmer  advanced  and  struck 
the  faithful  mule  a  cruel  blow  just  abaft  his  midship  ribs. 
Stretching  out  his  hind  legs  in  a  dreamy,  listless  way,  the 
mule  felt  them  touch  something,  and  in  a  moment  Farmer 
Brown  was  sailing  in  the  far  blue  overhead. 

The  little  church  in  the  mossy  dell  is  not  completed 
yet,  and  the  building  committee  is  anxiously  waiting  for 
the  treasurer  to  come  down. 


LAKESIDE  Mi' SINGS.  221 


BETTER    THAN    WORKING. 

"What  ho!  my  merry  poet  man, 

Come  sit  ye  here  awhile, 
And  I  will  tell  you  how  to  make 

Of  money  quite  a  pile." 

Thus  spake  the  gray-haired  editor 

Unto  a  callow  youth 
Who  straight  from  college  came  and  for 

A  job  applied,  forsooth. 

"I  would  a  writer  be,"  he  said, 

On  topics  of  the  time; 
The  sprightly  paragraph  I'll  build, 

Or  eke  a  funny  rhyme. 

"With  base-ball  lore  I'm  really  filled, 

On  tennis  quite  too  quite; 
Boat -racing  I  report  with  ease. 

Likewise  a  great  prize-fight." 

The  editor  had  once  himself 
Been  young  and  fair  and  fresh, 

But  now  no  man  so  fly  as  he 
Was  found  in  the  profesh. 

"  You  know  too  much,"  he  soft  replied 

Unto  Yale's  graduate, 
"  To  pit  against  my  other  men — 

They  could  not  go  your  gait. 

"  But  if  'tis  wealth  you  want,  my  boy, 
Why  linger  near  me,  when 

Your  money  can  at  evens  be 
Bet  on  St.  Julien?  " 

The  poet  rose  and  went  his  way. 

Large  wagers  laid  he  quick; 
St.  Julien  won — that  night  the  youth 

Was  full  as  any  tick. 


222  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


A  DAUGHTER'S  SACRIFICE. 

"Yes,  Mehitable,  we  are  ruined." 

The  person  thus  addressed — a  woman  past  middle  age, 
and  in  whose  locks,  once  golden,  the  silvered  footprints  of 
time  were  beginning  to  show,  marking  with  an  unerring 
certainty  that  was  almost  painful  the  last  milestones  on 
the  rugged  pathway  of  life — looked  up  at  her  husband 
with  an  expression  that  strove  hard  to  be  cheerful,  but 
in  spite  of  all  her  strength  of  purpose  there  was  a  nerv- 
ous quivering  of  the  lips,  and  into  the  brown  eyes  there 
came  a  look  of  mingled  wistfulness  and  sorrow  that  was 
pitiful. 

Thirty  years  ago,  when  Mehitable  Nonesuch  had  married 
Phoenix  W.  Brown,  there  was  no  handsomer  bride  in  all 
the  country  round,  and  as  Phoenix  knelt  beside  her  at  the 
altar  of  the  little  chapel  that  stood  in  the  dell  beyond  the 
meadow,  he  felt  that  with  this  woman,  beautiful  in  form 
and  feature  as  the  rose  and  pure  in  heart  as  the  lily,  to 
guide  and  assist  him,  his  life  should  be  forever  peaceful 
and  happy.  They  had  moved  to  the  little  farm  that  his 
father  had  given  them,  and  through  three  decades  of 
years,  that  seemed  when  looked  back  upon  from  the  sum- 
mit of  prosperity  and  love  as  but  so  many  beautiful  sum- 
mer days,  had  lived  together  in  almost  perfect  happiness. 
Two  children,  a  boy  and  girl,  had  been  born  to  them  and 
were  still  alive.  Harold,  strong,  sturdy  and  in  the  full 
glow  of  manly  health  and  vigor,  had  come  back  from 
college  three  years  ago  and  was  now  the  trusted  Cashier 
of  the  Baldwinsville  Bank.  Gwendolen,  who  had  grown 
into  a  fair,  stately  girl  of  twenty,  was  the  light  of  the 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  223 


household.  Suitors  by  the  score  had  wooed  her,  but 
while  all  were  received  kindly,  the  pleadings  of  all  save 
one  failed  to  move  the  girl's  heart.  Berwyck  Hether- 
ington  had  known  Gwendolen  from  childhood,  and  be- 
tween them  there  had  long  existed  a  pure,  passionless 
love — a  flame  that  burned  with  a  clear,  steady  radiance, 
as  beams  the  soft  light  of  the  evening  star — a  love  that 
cast  around  their  lives  a  golden  halo  in  whose  rays  both 
seemed  transfigured  and  beautified.  Berwyck  had  told 
Gwendolen  of  his  love  as  they  walked  home  one  beauti- 
ful October  evening  from  the  weekly  meeting  of  the 
Women's  League  for  the  Suppression  of  Polygamy  in 
South  Africa,  and  as  he  whispered  in  her  ear  the  words 
that  seemed  sweeter  than  ever  man  had  uttered,  and  been 
answered  with  one  little  word,  bashfully  spoken  in  low, 
sweet  tones,  he  had  drawn  her  to  him  in  the  full  mellow 
light  of  the  glorious  moon  that  hung  in  the  sky  like  a 
ball  of  molten  gold,  and  pressed  on  her  dewy  lips  the  be- 
trothal kiss. 

"Our  lives  shall  always  be  happy,  sweetheart,"  Ber- 
wyck had  said  that  night  as  he  parted  from  Gwendolen  at 
the  gate,  and  she,  as  he  held  her  for  one  blissful  moment 
to  his  breast,  had  twined  her  arms  around  his  neck  and 
answered  him  with  a  kiss. 

Two  weeks  later  Farmer  Brown's  favorite  speckled  cow 
got  into  the  potato-bin,  and  when  the  morning  sun 
leaped  from  behind  the  haystack  its  rays  fell  on  a  pallid 
corpse. 

The  potatoes  had  triumphed. 

Like  nearly  every  man  who  has  tried  to  lead  a  six- 
months  calf  to  water  with  the  rope  tied  around  his  waist, 
Farmer  Brown  was  superstitious,  and  the  tragic  death  of 


224  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


his  favorite  cow  made  a  deep  impression  on  his  mind. 
"  Misfortunes  never  come  in  single  harness,"  he  had  said 
to  his  wife  the  day  after  Bossy's  death  as  he  came  into 
the  woodshed  and  let  the  deceased's  hide  fall  with  a  dull, 
sickening  thud  in  the  corner.  "  We  shall  have  more  bad 
luck  before  we  have  better,"  he  continued,  and  his  words 
had  proven  true.  A  succession  of  reverses  had  come 
thick  and  fast  upon  him.  Neighbor  Simpson's  bay  steer 
had  got  into  the  huckleberry-patch  one  night,  and  in  the 
morning  there  was  a  violet-colored  steer,  but  no  huckle- 
berries. Then  the  popcorn  crop  had  failed,  and  the 
mortgage  placed  on  the  farm  in  the  hope  of  retrieving 
these  losses  had  come  due,  with  no  money  to  pay  it. 
Jasper  Knuckledowntight,  who  had  loaned  Farmer  Brown 
the  money,  was  a  relentless  creditor,  and  unless  payment 
was  made  on  the  morrow  would  foreclose.  It  was  this 
knowledge  that  had  caused  Farmer  Brown  to  utter  the 
words  with  which  this  chapter  opens.  He  had  told  his 
wife  and  children  the  previous  evening  how  matters 
stood,  and  all  had  gone  to  bed  with  weary  hearts. 

"Yes,  wife,  we  are  ruined,"  repeated  the  old  man — "  no, 
not  ruined,"  he  continued,  while  we  have  these  jewels," 
pointing  as  he  spoke  to  Harold  and  Gwendolen,  who 
were  entering  the  house  together.  "  We  are  rich  in  their 
love — the  greatest  treasure  life  possesses." 

"  Father,"  said  Harold,  speaking  slowly,  "  will  nothing 
but  the  payment  of  a  thousand  dollars  save  our  home? " 

"  Nothing,"  replied  the  old  man,  sadly. 

"Then  here  is  the  money,"  continued  Harold,  handing 
his  father  a  roll  of  bills.  "  That  package  contains  a  thou- 
sand dollars." 

"Where  did  you  get  this  money?"  asked  the  father. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  22$ 


"I  have  robbed  the  bank." 

For  an  instant  no  word  was  spoken.  Farmer  Brown 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  "  Is  this  all  you  took  ? " 
he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  My  God,  boy!  We  are  ruined.  We  must  have  at  least 
another  thousand." 

"Why?" 

"To  pay  a  lawyer  for  acquitting  you." 

Harold's  face  became  ashen.  "  Great  heaven,"  he  said 
slowly,  "  why  was  I  so  forgetful  ? " 

"Wait,"  exclaimed  Gwendolen,  who  had  remained 
silent,  "until  I  return  ;"  and  passing  from  the  house  she 
was  soon  lost  in  the  twilight.  Up  the  road  she  sped  until 
the  house  of  Cicero  Short,  who  had  been  one  of  her  most 
ardent  lovers,  was  reached.  She  entered  the  mansion, 
and  did  not  reappear  for  an  hour.  Then  she  walked 
quickly  home  and  came  into  the  room  where  her  parents 
and  brother  were  sitting.  They  looked  up  expectantly. 

"  You  are  saved,"  she  said,  kissing  her  brother  as  she 
spoke. 

"  How  ? "  he  asked.     "  What  have  you  done,  girl  ?  " 

"  I  have,"  she  answered  in  clear,  ringing  tones,  "agreed 
to  marry  the  State's-Attorney  when  my  brother  is  ac- 
quitted." 


226  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


A   SACRED   RELIC. 

"  I  am  cutting  my  corns." 

As  the  words  floated  out  upon  the  soft  air  of  a  June 
afternoon,  and  fell  upon  the  ear  of  Berwyck  Hethering- 
ton,  who  was  swinging  lazily  in  a  hammock  that  hung 
beneath  the  larches,  he  smiled  the  cold,  cynical  smile 
he  had  learned  in  Kenosha,  and  then  he  raised  himself 
on  one  elbow  and  fell  out  of  the  hammock. 

The  noise  attracted  Eulalie  McGirlygirt's  attention, 
and  she  came  to  the  window,  holding  a  shoe  in  her  hand. 
Leaning  out  over  the  casement,  she  was  about  to 
offer  words  of  condolence  and  sympathy  to  Berwyck, 
when  her  foot  slipped,  and  the  loud  crash  of  furniture 
which  followed  so  startled  the  girl  that  she  dropped  the 

shoe. 

******* 

"  Will  this  patient  ever  recover? "  asked  a  visitor  at  a 
noted  insane  asylum. 

"  It  is  a  hopeless  case,"  replied  the  physician:  "He 
was  brought  to  the  hospital  nearly  two  years  ago,  dread- 
fully mangled,  and  when  his  health  was  restored,  reason 
had  fled.  His  one  idea  is  that  the  court  house  is  falling 

on  him." 

******* 

"We  have  kept  the  secret  well,  daughter,"  said  Mrs. 
McGirlygirt  to  Eulalie,  one  summer  afternoon. 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply.  " But  do  you  know  that  I  have 
never  worn  the  shoe  since  that  day? " 

"  How  foolishly  notional  you  are,  darling,"  said  the 
mother.  "You  might  at  least  give  it  to  some  poor 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  22^ 


family  who  have  no   home    to  protect  them  from   the 
cold.  ' 

"  No,"  answered  the  girl.  "  It  is  a  sacred  relic,  and  I 
shall  always  keep  is  to  remind  me  of  one  who  might  have 
been  my  husband." 


HOW    HAROLD    DIED. 

"  Do  you  love  me  truly,  Harold?" 

Lurline  Neversink  was  even  more  beautiful  than  usual 
as  she  stood  in  the  soft,  mellow  light  that  streamed  from 
the  chandelier  overhead,  and,  looking  down  fondly  upon 
her,  George  W.  Simpson  felt  that  to  wreck  forever  the 
happiness  of  her  young  life,  to  plunge  her  soul  into  the 
turbid  depths  of  despair  and  hold  it  there  by  the  heels, 
were  a  crime  than  which  none  could  be  more  black.  He 
knew  that  this  girl,  whose  weird,  passionate  nature  made 
her  heart  a  lute  for  every  passing  joy  or  grief  to  play 
upon,  had  given  to  him  the  one  best  love  of  a  woman's  life 
— her  first.  It  was  something  to  be  tenderly  proud  of,  this 
love — something  not  to  be  worn  lightly  on  the  sleeve 
where  all  might  see  it,  but  tucked  carefully  away  in  the 
woodshed  of  a  man's  soul,  secure  alike  from  carping 
criticism  or  cruel  jest.  And  yet,  as  George  W.  Simpson 
gazed  tenderly  into  the  dark,  lustrous  eyes  that  were 
aglow  with  hopeful  expectancy,  he  felt  that  the  mael- 
strom of  passionate  adoration  into  which  Lurline  Never- 
sink had  allowed  herself  to  be  drawn,  would  one  day  cast 
her  young  heart  bleeding  and  torn  upon  the  jagged  rocks 
of  his  refusal.  It  was  a  terrible,  maddening  thought, 


228  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


and  it  came  with  awful  force  to  George  as  he  stood  in  that 
palatial  mansion,  his  feet  sinking  into  the  velvet  carpet 
until  he  was  in  danger  of  becoming  cock-ankled,  and 
heard  the  words  with  which  this  chapter  opens. 

Bending  tenderly  over  the  girl,  George  kisses  her  in 
a  chaste,  New  Haven,  Conn.,  manner,  but  does  not  trust 
himself  to  answer  in  words  the  fateful  question  she  has 
asked.  And  then  they  pass  into  the  music-room,  which 
is  separated  from  the  hall  by  a  portiere  of  navy-blue 
velvet.  The  windows  of  the  room  are  shaded  by  the 
same  rich  color,  and  the  walls  between  them  are  covered 
with  paintings.  Statues  of  Mozart,  Beethoven  and  Guido 
filled  t'.ie  niches,  while  over  the  low  mantel  hung  a  full- 
length  portrait  of  Maud  S.  No  word  was  spoken  until 
Lurline  was  seated  at  the  piano,  and  then  it  was  simply 
a  request  that  he  hand  her  a  certain  piece  of  musie.  As 
he  stooped  forward  to  comply,  the  outlines  of  his  face 
were  brought  into  strong  relief  against  the  ruddy  back- 
ground of  his  left  ear,  and  Lurline  gazed  at  him  intently. 
His  was  such  a  countenance  as  one  sees  in  old  Italian 
portraits,  in  some  Vandykes,  showing  power  strangely 
blended  with  passion.  His  mouth,  beautiful  as  a 
woman's,  with  its  smile  generous  and  rare  as  a  split  cod- 
fish, was  tightly  compressed  and  as  bloodless  as  marble. 
His  eyebrows,  dark,  straight,  and  finely  penciled,  met 
over  his  dark-gray  eyes,  and  in  the  latter  there  was  a 
fixed,  resolute  expression  that  boded  no  good  to  a  square 
meal  if  he  should  happen  to  meet  one. 

At  last  the  music  was  found  and  Lurline  began  to 
sing.  Carried  away  by  the  inspiration  of  the  moment, 
she  sang  on  and  on  until  at  last  she  paused  from  sheer 
exhaustion,  And  then,  seeing  that  George  was  not  a( 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  229 


her  side,  she  turned  to  the  fauteuil  at  her  feet.  There 
he  lay — dead,  in  all  the  proud  grandeur  of  his  glorious 
manhood,  while  on  his  forehead  fell  the  "  golden  dawn- 
ing of  a  grander  day."  He  had  died  at  the  moment 
when  he  was  passing  the  stone  that  marks  the  loftiest 
point  on  life's  highway — died  where  manhood's  morning 
almost  touches  it,  and  while  the  shadows  were  falling  to- 
ward the  West.  The  mellow  light  from  the  chandelier 
stole  into  the  hushed  chamber  of  death  and  wandered 
over  his  stately  form,  that  lay  powerless  and  stricken, 
over  his  noble,  handsome  face,  telling,  even  in  death,  of 
the  deathless  love  he  bore  her. 

He  had  forgotten  to  plug  up  his  ears. 


ON    THE    EVE    OF    MATRIMONY. 

"Do  they  edit  in  here?" 

The  several  occupants  of  the  room  looked  around  and 
discovered  a  young  lady  standing  in  the  doorway.  She 
nodded  slightly  to  the  horse  reporter,  and  that  individual 
returned  the  salutation  with  a  placid,  mile-and-a-half- 
over-eight-hurdles  smile,  whose  grandeur  of  expanse 
would  alone  have  made  it  noticeable. 

"You  are  right  this  time,  madam,"  he  said.  "This 
is  the  exact  spot  where  the  seething  brain  of  the  trained 
journalist  proceeds  to  bubble,  and  the  lances  of  Thought 
that  pierce  with  unerring  aim  the  brazen  helmets  of 
Wrong  are  ever  held  in  couchant  poise  by  strong  arms 
ready  to  launch  them  forth  at  the  signal  of  danger." 

"  Papa  doesn't  know  I  am  up  here,"  said  the  vision  of 


230  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


loveliness,  "but  mamma  does.  The  very  minute  I  told 
her  that  I  was  going  to  see  an  editor  she  said  it  was  the 
best  thing  to  do,  but  when  I  got  to  the  door  I  just 
thought  I  should  die." 

"  You  don't  appear  to  be  in  any  danger  of  immediate 
dissolution,"  remarked  the  horse  reporter. 

"  Oh,  of  course  I  don't  mean  exactly  that,"  said  the  young 
lady,  "but  I  was  awfully  nervous,  you  know — I  always 
was  that  way — and  when  I  was  a  little  girl  papa  used  to 
say  that  the  only  way  to  govern  me  was  by  kindness." 

"Well,  we'll  be  gentle  with  you,"  replied  the  personal 
friend  of  Rarus.  "  Would  you  like  to  read  the  Hawks- 
ville  Clarion,  or  the  Cohoes  Freeman?  "  pointing  to  a  pile 
of  exchanges. 

"  No,  I  don't  care  about  it,  thank  you,"  was  the  reply. 
"  You  editors  must  have  a  hard  time  managing  all  the 
people  who  come  up  here." 

"There  is  a  managing  editor  for  that  purpose,"  said 
the  horse  reporter. 

"  How  nice!     And  do  all  these  gentlemen  edit?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  going  to  be  married  next  week,"  said  the  young 
lady.  "  Ain't  it  funny?  " 

"  Quite  ludicrous,  no  doubt,"  was  the  reply. 

"And  I  came  up  here,"  she  continued,  "to  see  if  you 
would  put  a  nice  notice  of  the  affair  in  the  paper.  Will 
you  do  it?" 

"Certainly,"  said  the  horse  reporter.  "Would  like 
to  have  it  referred  to  as  'Another  of  those  delightful 
events  in  which  the  happiness  of  a  trusting  love  finds 
glad  fruition  in  wedded  bliss; '  or,  'The  marriage  bells 
rang  out  merrily  last  evening,  telling  to  the  star-lit  skies 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  231 


a  joyful  tale  of  love's  final  triumph?'  Both  these  sen- 
tences are  kept  in  type,  and  you  can  have  your  choice." 

"  I  rather  like  the  last  one,"  said  the  young  lady.  "  It 
is  more  tenderly  beautiful.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  horse  reporter.  "  There  is  a  sort 
of  Curfew-will-not-ring-to-night  tinge  to  it  that  lays 
over  the  other  one." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  take  that.  And  will  an  editor  be 
around  to  write  it  up? " 

"Certainly." 

"  I  will  send  you  a  piece  of  the  wedding  cake,"  con- 
tinued the  young  lady. 

"  Do,"  said  the  horse  reporter.  "  There  is  a  dog  up 
my  way  that  needs  killing." 


THE  DAUGHTER'S  RESOLVE. 

"God  pity  me!  " 

Gladys  McNulty,  usually  so  proud  and  composed,  and 
who  moved  about  in  the  little  world  of  those  who  knew 
her  with  the  stately  grace  of  a  New  York  Post  editorial, 
sat  on  a  fa uteuil  as  she  uttered  these  words,  and  sobbed 
as  if  her  shoestrings  would  break. 

In  the  lindens  that  lined  the  entrance  to  Brierton  Villa 
the  robin  redbreasts  were  trilling  their  merriest  lays, 
while  over  by  the  woodshed  the  haggard  outlines  of  an 
abandoned  hoopskirt  through  which  the  daisies  were 
peeping,  showed  that  spring,  the  most  pulmonary  and 
beautiful  season  of  the  year,  had  arrived.  In  the  broad 
fields  that  stretched  away  to  the  westward  the  farmers 


232  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


were  preparing  the  ground  for  the  seed  which,  nourished 
in  the  bosom  of  Mother  Earth  and  warmed  by  the  genial 
rays  of  the  sun,  would  soon  become  the  ripened  grain, 
yielding  to  its  owner  a  bounteous  harvest,  and  enabling 
him  to  play  against  bunko  when  he  visits  Chicago  in  the 
fall.  A  ruddy-faced  boy,  picking  sand-burs  from  be- 
tween his  toes,  flecks  the  horizon  and  lends  an  added 
beauty  to  the  enchantment  of  the  scene. 

And  yet,  lying  there  on  the  fauteuil,  whose  velvety  sur- 
face is  not  more  soft  than  her  cheek,  Gladys  McNulty  is 
sobbing  away  the  hours  of  this  beautiful  June  morning, 
and  ever  and  anon  there  comes  from  between  her  white 
lips  a  low,  despairing  moan  that  is  pitiful  in  its  sad  inten- 
sity. But  finally  the  convulsive  sobs  that  are  racking  her 
dress-waist  grow  fainter,  and  in  a  little  while  she  sits  up, 
the  pink  suffusion  of  a  blush  telling  all  too  plainly  which 
side  she  had  been  lying  on. 

And  as  she  sits  there,  gazing  listlessly  into  the  middle 
of  next  week,  her  mother,  a  pleasant-faced  woman  with- 
out corsets,  enters  the  room. 

"Why  are  you  weeping,  Gladys?"  she  asks. 

The  girl  does  not  answer,  and  strive  as  she  may  to 
keep  down  the  sobs  that  are  welling  up  from  her  heart, 
the  effort  is  in  vain,  and  again  the  pretty  face  is  bedewed 
with  tears.  But  an  instant  later  she  has  conquered  her 
emotions  and  looks  bravely  up  at  her  mother. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  mamma,"  she  says,  "  the  cause  of  my 
sorrow.  I  was  crying  to  think  that  you  can  not  go  to  the 
matinee  to-morrow." 

"  And  why  may  I  not  go? " 

"  Because,"  answers  Gladys  in  a  voice  that  is  hoarse 
with  agony,  "I  have  concluded  to  take  it  in  myself." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  233 


SAVED  BY  A  JACK-POT. 

"  So  you  wish  to  marry  my  daughter? " 

These  words  were  uttered  by  a  man  who  fairly  hissed 
them  through  his  teeth  as  he  stood,  with  a  cruel  sneer  on 
his  lips,  in  front  of  a  young  man,  the  nervous  twitchings 
of  whose  clean-cut  features  told  more  plainly  than  could 
any  words,  however  freely  interspersed  with  adjectives, 
the  torture  he  was  suffering. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Herbert  Mclntosh,  looking  up  into  the 
face  of  him  who  had  spoken.  "  I  love  Myrtle  with  a  rich, 
warm,  tempestuous  love  that  recks  not  of  obstacles,  but 
sweeps  away  like  a  mighty  avalanche  the  difference  in 
social  position  that  exists  between  us.  My  passion  is  a 
deathless  one  that,  like  the  mighty  simoon  of  the  desert, 
gathers  force  with  every  instant  of  its  existence,  and  stills 
alike  with  its  hot  breath  the  life  of  man  and  beast.  I 
know  that  appearances  are  against  me.  I  am  poor  and 
honest,  and  last  Saturday  night  I  had  a  king-full  beaten, 
but  I  can  not  conceal  my  love.  You  are  rich  and  success- 
ful, and  I  can  see  from  the  window  of  the  little  room  in 
which  I  work  the  high  walls  of  your  packing-house,  and 
hear  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  stricken  pig  who  has  his  inter- 
ior scooped  out  and  is  cut  into  hams  and  clear  sides  be- 
fore the  echo  of  his  death  shriek  has  ceased  to  linger  on  the 
musk-laden  air  of  the  stock-yards.  You  are  living  under 
turquoise-tinted  skies,  while  I  am  in  great  luck  to  have  a 
sky  at  all.  It  is  not  my  fault  that  you  are  rich;  I  love  your 
daughter,  and  she  returns  my  love;  "  and  saying  this,  Her- 
bert looked  anxiously  in  the  direction  of  the  window,  his 
breast  giving  a  great  throb  of  joy  as  he  saw  that  the 


234  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


blinds  were  closed,  and  the  old  man  could  not  throw  him 
out. 

"  Hark  ye,  my  lad,"  said  the  pork-packer,  with  a  cold, 
skating-rink  smile  hovering  o'er  his  face.  "  You  say  you 
love  my  daughter,  and  would  win  her  for  your  bride.  So 
be  it.  I  have  naught  against  thee  save  thy  poverty. 
Come  to  me  within  a  month  with  one  thousand  dollars 
gained  by  thine  own  industry  and  skill,  and  Myrtle  shall 
be  your  wife.  If  you  fail  in  this  her  hand  is  given  to  a 
friend  of  mine  who  owns  a  glucose  factory." 

"But  you  would  not  force  her  to  marry  against  her 
will  ? "  said  Herbert.  "  She  has  plighted  her  troth  to  me." 

"  I  know  not  of  your  childish  vagaries,"  replied  the  old 
man.  I  have  said  my  say.  In  three  minutes  I  shall  un- 
tie the  bull-dog.  " 

Herbert  went  away. 
******* 

Midnight  on  Wabash  avenue. 

Five  men  are  seated  around  a  table  with  a  hole  in  the 
centre  of  it.  Herbert  is  in  the  party,  and  opposite  him 
sits  his  hated  rival,  the  man  who  owns  an  interest  in  a 
glucose  factory.  Herbert  is  dealing.  He  looks  at  his 
cards  and  bets  one  hundred  dollars. 

"  Five  hundred,"  says  the  glucose  man. 

"  A  thousand,"  says  Herbert,  reaching  into  his  pocket 
as  if  for  money. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  getting  out  your  roll  until  the  hands 
are  played,"  said  the  glucose  man.  "  I  will  be  easy  with 
you,  and  only  call.  I  have  four  aces." 

"Straight  flush,"  said  Herbert  in  low,  bitter  tones,  as 
he  laid  the  cards  on  the  table  and  pocketed  a  thousand- 
dollar  bill  which  his  adversary  threw  across  to  him. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  235 


The  next  night  Herbert  and  Myrtle  occupied  one  chair 
in  the  parlor  of  the  pork-packer's  residence.  "  vVe  will 
be  married  in  the  fall,  my  sweet,  she  said  in  soft,  low 
tones,  kissing  him  passionately  as  she  spoke. 

"Yes,  Tootie,"  he  murmured;  "in  the  fall.  We  can 
live  with  your  folks  next  winter." 


CROQUET    PROBLEM. 

"  Editor  in? " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  horse  reporter  to  the  person  asking 
the  question — a  young  man  with  a  table-spoon  hat  and  a 
you-may-kiss-me-but-don't-you-tell-papa  mustache,  who 
stood  in  the  doorway — "  the  editor  is  in,  and  the  chances 
are  that  he  prefers  staying  in  rather  than  run  any  risk  of 
falling  against  you." 

"  Well,  of  course,  you  know,"  said  the  young  man, 
"very  likely  it  wouldn't  be  absolutely  necessary  for  me 
to  see  the  really  and  truly  editor  about  this  matter  that 
I  wanted  to  have  settled.  It's  a  question  to  be  answered, 
you  know." 

"  I  should  surmise,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "  that  an 
average  deck-hand  could  successfully  wrestle  with  any 
problem  you  might  evolve." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  continued  the  young  man. 
"This  is  a  real  hard  question,  you  know,  and  a  good 
many  of  our  set  over  on  the  West  Side  have  tried  awfully 
to  settle  it,  but  we  can't.  I  never  saw  such  a  provoking 
thing  in  my  life,  and  last  night  I  was  talking  with  my 


236  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


room-mate  about  it  and  we  got  real  angry,  and  it  looked 
once  as  if  we  should  strike  each  other.  I  wouldn't  have 
had  a  row  with  Cholly  for  anything,  you  know,  because 
we  have  been  in  the  same  store  for  nearly  three  years 
now,  and  when  he  was  promoted  to  the  ribbon  counter 
he  always  spoke  to  me  just  the  same  as  when  we  were 
both  in  the  threads." 

"  In  the  what? "  asked  the  reporter. 

"  In  the  threads — the  thread  department,  you  know, 
and  I  always  said  that  nothing  could  make  me  go  back 
on  Cholly — you  know  how  anything  like  that  makes  two 
fellows  awful  chums." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  horse  reporter;  "but  what  is 
your  question?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  some  people  are  playing  croquet,  and 
a  rover  is  driven  up  close  to  the  home-steak.  Now,  an- 
other man  is  dead  on  the  ball,  but  having  a  stroke  he 
plays  on  the  rover  and  forces  it  against  the  stake.  Now, 
I  say  the  rover  is  dead,  and  the  other  fellows  they  say  it 
isn't,  and  we've  been  having  an  awful  time  about  it  over 
on  the  West  Side,  and — 

"  Yes,  you  told  me  that  before.  Our  croquet  editor 
is  away  on  his  vacation.  He  spends  it  in  the  asylum  for 
feeble-minded  people,  getting  pointers  from  the  inmates, 
but  like  enough  I  can  fix  this  thing  for  you." 

"  Oh,  that's  awfully  jolly.     Have  a  cigarette? " 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  am  over  nine  years  old.  But  about 
the  croquet  matter.  You  say  the  rover  is  close  to  the 
stake? " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  the  next  player  knocks  it  against  the  stake? " 

"Yes." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  237 


"  And  then  the  player  after  him  claims  that  the  rover 
is  dead  ? " 

'•  Yes,  that's  it;  and  they  can't  agree." 

"  Well,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "  I  should  say  that  the 
man  who  got  the  first  knock-down  ought  to  win." 

"  But  they  don't  knock  each  other  down.  They  don't 
quarrel  at  all." 

"  You  said  this  was  a  croquet  game,  didn't  you?" 

"Why,  certainly." 

"  And  they  didn't  quarrel  ? " 

"  Why,  of  course  not." 

"Then  the  fairies  are  indeed  kind  to  the  dry-goods 
clerks,  and  I  can  only  say  that  your  best  plan  is  to  dis- 
guise yourself  with  a  cigar  and  ride  down  in  the  ele- 
vator." 


MORE  PRECIOUS  THAN  EVER. 

"  Do  you  like  apple  pie?" 

The  soft,  sighing  wind  of  a  dreamy,  one-light-under- 
shirt-and-no-suspenders  evening  in  June  was  kissing  the 
fluffy  mass  of  golden  hair  that  surmounted  Ethlyn  Mc- 
Nulty's  perfectly-shaped  head,  and  as  she  looked  trust- 
ingly up  into  the  face  of  the  one  man  in  all  the  wide, 
wide  world  to  whom  had  been  given  the  priceless  treas- 
ure of  her  girlish,  summer-resort  love,  George  W.  Simp- 
son felt  the  balm  of  her  doughnut  breath  on  his  lips  and 
knew  that,  come  weal  or  woe,  be  the  day  radiant  with 
the  golden  sunshine  of  Fortune  or  darkened  by  the 
gaunt,  haggard  figure  of  Despair,  there  would  always  be 
one  heart  that  beat  for  him  alone,  one  soul  to  which  he 


238  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


could  make  fast  the  storm-tossed  bark  of  his  hopes  and 
go  ashore  on  the  wildest  kind  of  a  hurrah,  secure  in  his 
consciousness  that  upon  his  return  the  old  scow  would  be 
at  the  dock. 

I  c  is  to  the  man  of  the  world — one  who  has  passed  the 
bock-beer  springtime  of  life,  who  has  seen  the  bright  and 
beautiful  visions  of  youth  fade  silently  away  before  the 
cold,  biting,  thermometer-going-down-cellar-and-no-win- 
ter-pants-in-the-house  blasts  of  adverse  fate,  and  in  whose 
nature  cynicism  has  usurped  the  place  of  trustfulness — 
that  the  pure  and  holy  love  of  a  woman  about  whose  cold 
feet  he  knows  nothing  comes  with  a  force  that  is  almost 
terrible  in  its  intensity.  To  George  W.  Simpson,  who 
had  so  long  looked  upon  love  as  an  idyllic  dream — the 
rose-colored  figment  of  a  disordered  imagination — the 
fact  of  his  deep  affection  for  Ethlyn  McNulty  came  as  a 
revelation — a  porter-house  steak  oasis  in  the  boarding- 
house  desert  of  his  existence.  And  when  he  knew — when 
the  ruby-red  lips  had  whispered  shyly  into  his  large, 
sumptuous  ear  the  words  that  told  him  his  love  was  re- 
ciprocated so  fully  and  completely  that  it  looked  as  if  the 
other  side  must  certainly  be  bluffing — he  had  felt  a  calm, 
peaceful  joy  that  lifted  him  above  the  cold,  cruel  world 
with  all  its  bitter  disappointments  and  despair,  and  seated 
him,  silent  and  alone,  on  the  shot-tower  of  gratified  hope. 
The  days  since  they  had  plighted  their  troth  beneath  the 
spreading  branches  of  the  linden  trees  that  lined  the 
pathway  leading  through  the  lawn  to  Distress-Warrant 
Castle  had  passed  in  a  slow,  St.  Louis-merchant-in-a- 
hurry  fashion  that  to  George  W.  Simpson  was  simply  ag- 
onizing; and  now,  on  the  evening  before  that  day  on 
which  his  hopes  were  to  find  glad  fruition  in  wedded 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  239 


bliss,  they  had  met  again  beneath  the  lindens  to  say  once 
more  the  words  that  repetition  only  makes  more  sweet. 
Ere  the  last  rays  of  another  setting  sun  shall  again  gild 
the  eternal  hills  and  such  stray  cows  as  happen  to  be 
standing  around,  a  cassocked  priest  will  make  these 
twain  one  for  life,  and  George  will  be  twenty  dollars  loser. 
This  last  thought  steals  over  him  as  he  stands  there,  Eth- 
lyn's  arms  around  his  neck,  and  as  it  swashes  mournfully 
around  the  precincts  of  his  soul  his  thoughts  drift  back 
to  the  happy  past  when  he  was  a  merry,  light-hearted  boy 
with  a  sore  toe. 

But  suddenly  the  touch  of  a  damask  cheek  against  his 
own  brings  the  reverie  to  a  close.  A  pair  of  bright, 
sparkling  eyes — eyes  that  will  soon  be  picking  out  bon- 
nets at  his  expense — are  looking  at  him,  and  fancies  that 
in  their  depths  he  sees  a  tinge  of  melancholy,  a  lambent 
gleam  of  no-caramels-for-three-days  that  goes  to  his  very 
heart. 

"You  are  sad,  my  darling,"  he  says,  pressing  her 
closely  to  the  midship  rib  of  his  larboard  side.  "Why  do 
you  look  so  sorrowful  ? " 

"Because,"  she  replies,  "you  have  not  answered  my 
question.  I  asked  you  if  you  liked  apple  pie." 

"  Yes.  '  he  says,  "  I  do.  I  am  deeply  enamored  of  pie 
in  every  shape." 

Hardly  have  the  words  left  his  lips  when  Ethlyn's 
head  droops,  and  presently  her  lithe  form  is  shaken  by 
a  storm  of  sobs.  George  is  horror-stricken.  He  has 
not  felt  such  a  shock  since  the  White  Stockings  won  a 
game. 

"Why  do  you  weep,  my  precious  one?"  he  asks,  bend- 
ing tenderly  over  her. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"  Because,"  she  answers  him,  her  voice  husky  with 
grief,  "  I  can  not  make  pie." 

"  Is  this  true?     Are  you  certain  there  is  no  mistake? " 

"None,  none,"  Ethlyn  moans  despairingly.  "I  can 
not  cook  at  all." 

"  Then,"  he  says,  raining  a  shower  of  kisses  on  the  up- 
turned face,  "you  are  more  precious  to  me  than  ever." 


HER    DEAREST    WISH. 

"  Do  not  say  that." 

Very  appealing  was  the  wistful  look  that  came  from  a 
pair  of  deep  brown  eyes  as  Clytie  Corcoran  spoke  these 
words  in  a  low,  strained,  we-will-warrant-these-goods- 
not-to-rip  manner  that  told  something  of  the  intensity 
of  her  feeling. 

Bertie  Cecil  stooped  and  kissed  the  pretty  red  lips  that 
were  put  up  to  him  in  a  half-pouting,  half-loving  fashion. 
They  were  to  be  married  in  the  fall,  these  two — the 
beautiful  fall,  when  nature's  cheeks  are  tinted  with  brown 
and  red,  when  the  amber  haze  of  Indian  summer  wreaths 
the  hilltops,  and  the  valleys  seem  but  huge  cups  filled  to 
the  brim  with  purple-red  wine.  Clytie  had  told  Bertie, 
that  night  in  June  when  she  had  drawn  him  close  to 
her  sash,  placed  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
whispered  tenderly  the  words  that  caused  a  great  joy  to 
flood  his  soul,  that  the  wedding  must  not  take  place  un- 
til October,  although  he,  never  having  previously  gone 
over  the  rapids,  was  eager  for  an  early  consummation  of 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  241 


his  happiness.  And  now  he  was  waiting,  anxiously,  and 
with  an  impatient  heart,  for  the  day  when  Clytie  would 
be  all  his  own,  and  the  rose-tinted  hours  hold  nothing 
for  him  but  her  love  and  her  dear  presence. 

But  amid  all  the  perfect  joy  that  filled  their  young  lives, 
there  had  come  a  cloud,  a  matter  on  which  they  could 
not  agree. 

It  was  this  subject  that  had  been  under  discussion 
between  them  when  the  words  with  which  this  chapter 
opens  were  spoken,  and  had  caused  Clytie  to  produce 
the  wistful  look  which  she  always  kept  in  stock  for  emer- 
gencies of  this  kind. 

"  You  will  not  change  your  mind  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Never,"  replied  Bertie.     "  Not  if  it  parts  us  forever." 

They  were  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  lawn.  Not  a 
tree  or  a  shrub  broke  the  velvety-green  plush  of  this 
revel  ground  of  Titania;  but  it  was  hedged  in — dusky, 
broad-shouldered  horse  chestnuts;  slim  coward  poplars; 
balm  o'Gileads,  with  their  cottony  ebullitions;  the  moun- 
tain ash,  with  its  coronal  of  scarlet  berries;  Norway 
spruces  and  evergreens;  and  where  the  shaven  sward 
sloped  down  to  a  little  silver  thread  of  joyous  water  a 
willow  dropped  forlorn  with  a  sorrowful  and  witching 
grace.  Beside  a  low,  rustic  fence  was  a  wide  border  of 
flowers — mignonette,  demure  and  shy;  heliotrope,  pensive 
and  wan;  carnations,  their  red  rims  filled  to  the  brim  with 
spices;  shadowy  lilies,  like  vestal  lamp-bearing  virgins, 
clothed  in  snowy  white;  roses,  languid,  velvety  and  rare 
with  eastern  perfumes;  and  pansies,  pathetic  and  seeking, 
purple  and  golden  and  dusky — the  flower  of  thoughts. 
And  as  Clytie  fastened  a  cluster  of  them  in  her  hair  she 
spoke  again — not  angrily  this  time,  but  with  a  tinge  of 

16 


242  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


sorrow  in  her  voice  that  was  almost  pitiful.  The  poor 
girl's  heart  was  breaking,  and,  try  as  she  might,  she 
could  not  conceal  the  bitter  knowledge  from  herself. 

"  Let  us  part  at  once,  then,"  she  said.  "  It  is  best 
soonest  over,"  and  slipping  from  a  finger  the  ring  with 
which  he  had  plighted  their  troth  in  the  golden  summer- 
tide,  she  handed  it  to  Bertie.  As  he  took  it  the  hot  tears 
of  disappointment  came  into  his  eyes,  but  he  brushed 
them  hastily  away.  "We  shall  at  least  part  friends,"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  girl,  smiling  a  wan,  sad  smile 
through  the  mist  that  covered  her  beautiful  brown  eyes — 
"  we  must  never  be  aught  but  friends,"  and  turning  she 
went  into  the  house. 

******* 

"  You  look  ill,  Clyde,"  said  Mendelssohn  Corcoran  at 
the  supper-table  that  evening  to  his  daughter. 

"No,  papa,"  was  the  reply;  "it  is  worse  than  that.' 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  for  an  instant.  "  Can  it  be 
possible,"  he  said,  "  that  you  and  Bertie  — 

"Yes,"  replied  Clytie,  "we  have  parted  forever." 

"Pooh,  pooh!  'tis  only  a  lovers'  quarrel  and  will  soon 
be  over." 

"  No,  papa/'  said  the  girl,  her  voice  tremulous  with 
grief,  "  it  is  best  to  face  misfortunes  bravely,  even  though 
one's  heart  be  breaking.  I  love  Bertie  dearly,  and  God 
knows  that  to  tear  his  image  out  of  my  heart  is  a  cruel 
pain.  But  we  should  not  have  lived  happily  together 
since  he  refused  my  dearest  wish." 

"  What  was  that,  my  darling  ? " 

"  He  said,"  replied  the  girl,  sobbing  as  if  her  corset 
would  break,  "  that  when  we  were  married  I  could  not 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  243 


have  his  razor;"  and  the  little  head  with  its  coronal  of 
sunny  curls  fell  on  her  father's  bosom  amid  a  storm  of 
sobs. 

•'  Why,  what  do  you  want  with  a  razor? "  he  asked  in 
astonishment. 

Looking  up  to  her  father,  the  only  one  she  had  in  the 
wide,  wide  world,  her  pretty  eyes  bedimmed  with  tears, 
Clytie  whispered  in  low,  agonized  tones: 

"  I  have  two  large  corns." 


A  SAFE   PROPOSITION. 

"Coal  costs  money." 

A  bitter,  mocking  smile — the  smile  of  a  demon  that 
has  been  baffled  in  his  unholy  efforts  to  lure  a  soul  to  the 
uttermost  depths  of  the  inferno — played  around  the 
Grecian  lips  of  Girofle  Mahaffy  as  these  words  fell  with 
cruel  incisiveness  from  her  lips.  Over  the  back-yard 
fence  came  the  silvery  gleams  of  the  inconstant  moon  as 
she  moved  through  the  heavens  in  brilliant  splendor,  and 
touched  with  gentle  hand  the  moss-covered  woodshed 
and  caused  the  dog,  whose  blood-curdling  bay  had  fallen 
in  such  fearful  cadence  upon  Rupert  Hetherington's 
large,  voluptuous  ears,  to  stand  out,  perfect  in  every  out- 
line, against  the  pure  mezzotints  of  the  recently-painted 
doorsteps. 

"You  are  jesting,  sweetheart,"  murmured  Rupert, 
pulling  up  his  pants  so  they  would  not  wrinkle  at  the 
knees,  and  seating  himself  beside  the  girl. 

"  Am  I  ? "  was  the  reply,  in  cold,  passionless  accents, 


244  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


that  seemed  to  Rupert  to  pierce  his  very  vest.  "  If  you 
really  think  so,  look  out  of  the  window." 

Rupert  obeyed.  The  moonlight  streamed  into  the 
room  as  he  pushed  aside  the  heavy  pomegranate  cur- 
tains, falling  in  mellow  splendor  on  vase  of  malachite, 
and  alabaster,  on  statue  and  bronze.  Tazzas  of  jasper 
and  lapis  lazuli  stood  in  recess  and  alcove  crowded  with 
flowers;  curious  trifles  in  gold  and  silver  carving,  in  am- 
ber and  mosaic,  stood  on  table  and  etagere.  A  curiously- 
wrought  sideboard  that  was  new  in  the  days  of  the  Cru- 
saders stood  at  his  left.  The  fire  glowed  ruddily  in  the 
grate,  the  pure  white  flames  leaping  up  the  chimney  as  if 
in  very  glee.  Amber-tinted  sour  mash,  as  Rupert  well 
knew,  lay  concealed  within  the  recesses  of  the  side- 
board. Outside  the  keen  wind  of  December  whistled 
shrilly  through  the  dead  branches  of  the  sturdy  oaks,  tell- 
ing of  the  cold  and  suffering  that  was  to  come  ere  the  soft 
breath  of  spring  kissed  the  earth  into  life  again.  The 
bleak  moorland,  black  and  dreary,  stretched  away  to  the 
eastward,  and  across  its  sullen  face  the  rabbits  were  run- 
ning. Rupert  saw  all  this  at  a  glance.  While  engaged  with 
the  sombre  thoughts  that  the  scene  induced,  a  hand  fell 
lightly  upon  his  shoulder.  He  turned  and  faced  Girofle. 

"  And  do  you  really  mean  what  you  say,  sweetheart?" 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  girl.  "  There  must  be  some  kind 
of  an  understanding.  I  can  not  bluff  away  all  the  days 
of  my  youth." 

"  Enough,"  said  Rupert,  "  I  will  marry  you." 

"But  when?"  asked  the  girl. 

Leaning  over  the  beautiful  girl  he  hissed  in  her  ear  the 
fateful  words:  "When  the  White  Stockings  win  a  game." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  245 


A  FOILED  EDITOR. 

What  ho!  my  merry  poet  man," 

Up  spoke  the  editor, 
"  Go  quickly  hence  and  write  me  out 

Some  verses  that  afar 
Through  all  the  land  shall  sound  the  praise 

Of 's  new  palace  car. 

I  fain  would  travel  without  cost 

From  here  to  Sandy  Bar." 
*  *  *  » 

The  poet  brought  the  verses  forth 

From  out  his  fertile  brain, 
They  printed  were  next  day,  and  in 

The  Weekly  shone  again ; 
Till  one  would  think  the  editor 

Desired  a  palace  train. 

Full  swiftly  forth  went  messenger 

With  letter  writ  so  fair, 
Requesting,  by  return  of  boy, 

Of  double  berths  a  pair; 
With  pillows  a'l  of  eider  down 

And  mattresses  of  hair. 

The  boy  came  back  with  solemn  face — 

"  I  reckon,  boss,"  he  said, 
"  That  in  the  lottery  of  life 

You  drew  a  baby's  head; 
'Twere  better  that  a  mule's  hind  foot 

Erstwhile  your  brains  had  spread. 

' '  The  man  to  whom  you  sent  me  was 

Of  giant  size  and  mein; 
He  said  that  of  the  many  gawks 

On  this  green  earth  he'd  seen 
You  captured  all  the  biscuit,  and 

The  doughnuts  too,  I  ween. 


246  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"He  said  that  advertising  was 
What  they  would  most  avoid; 

No  means  to  sound  the  praises  of 
Their  cars  were  e'er  employed. 

He  also  said  your  head  must  be 
Made  out  of  celluloid. 

The  editor  no  tickets  got, 

Full  sorrowful  was  he; 
"  Next  time,"  he  muttered  to  himself, 

' '  More  cunning  I  will  be, 
And  villify  the  agent,  who 

Will  passes  send  to  me." 


LOVE'S  TEST. 

"Pass  the  butter." 

Out  beneath  the  star-gemmed  sky  and  under  the  sturdy 
old  oaks  that  had  bid  defiance  to  the  storms  of  centuries, 
Girofle  Mahaffy  and  George  W.  Simpson  were  sitting  that 
beautiful  June  night,  the  balmy  breath  of  the  evening 
that  was  being  wafted  in  sighing  kisses  from  the  ever- 
glades of  Florida  made  vocal  by  the  chirp  of  the  cricket 
and  the  low,  mellow  note  of  the  dissipated  tomcat  as  he 
wandered  listlessly  around  the  back-yard,  now  and  then 
dodging  in  a  nonchalant,  languid  fashion  the  latest  boot- 
jack as  it  came  hustling  through  the  air  with  cruel  force, 
or  stopping  beneath  a  window  to  see  if  his  howl  was  still 
within  reach.  Up  from  the  westward  came  the  sound  of 
the  sea  as  its  silvered  foam  plashed  in  rhythmic  cadence 
on  the  white  sands  of  the  beach,  and  through  the  masses 
of  foliage  that  encircled  Brierton  Villa  could  be  seen  ever 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  247 


arid  anon,  especially  anon,  the  fitful  flicker  of  the  ice- 
cream lairs  that  flecked  the  horizon  in  every  direction.  It 
was  a  night  for  a  poet's  pen,  a  painter's  brush,  or  a  large 
schooner  of  Weiss  beer,  and  as  Girofle  sat  there  in  the 
gloaming  her  thoughts  wandered  back  to  the  days  of  a 
year  agone,  when  every  moment  of  her  life  was  brimming 
over  with  joy  and  every  day  seemed  a  rose-tinted  dream 
from  which  one  would  never  care  to  awaken. 

And  now  all  was  changed.  Standing  on  the  verge  of 
womanhood  and  watching  with  wistful  eyes  for  the  mists 
of  futurity  to  rise,  her  life  should  have  been  a  happy  one 
as  Hope  called  to  her  with  jocund  voice,  and  Youth 
laughed  back  response.  But  instead  of  this  the  darksome 
shadows  of  doubt  and  fear  fell  ever  on  the  pure  young 
face,  and  in  the  sweet  brown  eyes  there  was  a  wistful, 
yearning,  heaven-knows-I-wish-my-shoes-were-two-sizes- 
larger  look  that  was  pitiful  in  its  sad  beauty. 

"  You  can  not  love  me,  George,"  she  says  at  last,  "  or 
you  would  not  leave  me  in  this  manner — go  away  for 
two  whole  days,  when  you  know  that  my  heart  will  be 
breaking  for  you,  and  that  every  moment  of  your  absence 
will  be  to  me  an  age  of  torture  and  doubt " — and  coming 
to  his  side  she  places  her  arms  about  his  neck  in  a  shy, 
don't-know-whether-I-am-afoot-or-horseback  fashion  that 
tells  its  own  story  of  a  love  that  will  never  fade  or  falter 
as  long  as  the  collateral  securities  hold  out. 

And  so  they  stand  there,  the  moments  passing  by  un- 
heeded, the  girl  nestling  in  his  arms  secure  in  tlie  deep 
trustfulness  of  an  overpowering  passion,  while  the  man, 
smoothing  her  fair  forehead  gently,  bends  over  now  and 
then  to  kiss  the  rosy  lips  that  are  upturned  to  his,  and 
then  wonders  in  a  dreamy,  idyllic,  North  Side  fashion 


248  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


who  the  last  man  that  held  a  similar  situation  on  Girofle's 
staff  might  have  been.  Suddenly  the  girl  breaks  the  si- 
lence— she  had  broken  the  man  on  the  last  matinee 
day.  ''And  you  must  really  go?"  she  says;  "really  and 
truly?" 

"Yes,"  he  answers,  "when  Duty  calls  we  must  obey, 
and  I  have  seldom  known  Duty  to  call  on  the  poorest 
hand." 

"  But  I  can  not  let  you  go,"  she  says  passionately.  "  It 
is  cruel  to  test  my  love  so  sorely" — and,  breaking  down 
in  a  storm  of  sobs,  she  clings  to  him  more  closely  than 
ever.  And  then,  just  as  he  fears  for  her  reason,  so  ter- 
rible does  the  blow  seem,  the  sobs  that  are  making  the 
lithe  form  quiver  with  anguish  cease,  and  Girofle  looks 
up  to  him  with  a  happy  smile  upon  her  face.  "  I  will  be 
brave,"  she  says,  "but  you  must  make  me  one  promise,  a 
holy,  sacred  promise  that  even  death  itself  may  not  ab- 
solve you  from." 

"I  will  do  it  gladly,  my  precious  one,"  he  murmurs 
"  What  is  the  promise? " 

"You  must  promise,"  she  says,  "to  lend  me  your 
razor." 

"  Why,  of  course  I  will,  sweetheart,"  he  replies  gaily. 
"  I  promise  you  that  cheerfully.  But  why  do  you  make 
such  a  strange  request? " 

"  Because,"  she  says  in  those  low,  mellow  tones  that 
would  lure  a  man  through  inferno  or  to  Harvard  Junc- 
tion, "  I  have  a  large,  throbbing  bunion." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  249 


HIS   CHILLY    BLOOD. 

At  sunset  on  a  beautiful  evening  in  February  a  solitary 
young  man  might  have  been  seen  ascending  the  brow  of 
a  livery-stable. 

In  the  west,  where  the  day  was  dying,  there  were  masses 
of  fleecy  clouds,  the  tints  on  whose  lower  edges,  made 
by  the  broad  bands  of  rosy  light  that  streamed  up  from 
below  the  horizon,  gave  a  hint  of  the  golden  glory  that 
lay  below  them.  From  the  southward  there  crept  up  on 
the  sighing  wind  of  the  evening  a  faint  perfume,  and  as 
Alexander  Nonesuch  felt  its  subtle  influence  he  gave  a 
weird,  eerie  sniff  with  his  delicately-proportioned  nose, 
and  into  the  lustrous  dark  eyes  there  came  a  look  of  ten- 
der regret  that  told  with  mute  eloquence  of  where  his 
thoughts  were  wandering — to  the  calm,  peaceful  home 
among  the  snow-crowned  hills  of  New  England,  bright 
memories  of  which  had  risen  in  his  mind  as  the  subtle 
odor  of  corned-beef  and  cabbage  was  wafted  to  him. 
Then,  recovering  himself  by  a  mighty  effort,  he  placed 
his  right  foot  in  the  air  and  again  moved  steadily  for- 
ward. 

"What  ho!  without  there!     Hook  up  a  palfrey!" 

Even  as  these  words  rang  out  on  the  evening  air  there 
was  heard  the  shrill  neighing  of  the  impatient  steeds  and 
the  thunderous  roar  caused  by  their  iron-shod  hoofs 
striking  the  floor  as  they  leaped  madly  from  their  stalls 
and  were  quickly  harnessed.  The  last  gleam  of  daylight 
had  faded  from  the  earth  as  a  faithful  servitor  lighted  a 
fire  under  each  horse,  and  a  few  moments  later  Alexander 
Nonesuch  looked  out  pensively  upon  the  silvery  stars 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


that  twinkled  so  merrily  above  him.  "  How  like  Venice," 
he  murmured  softly  to  himself.  "  How  like  that  never- 
to-be-forgotten  night  when,  floating  idly  in  a  gondola,  I 
told  Clytie  Stiggins  of  my  deathless  passion  for  her,  and 
she  answered  me  in  her  cold,  Boston  way  that  the  daughter 
of  a  man  who  owned  two  mackerel  stores  could  never 
ally  herself  with  anything  less  than  a  member  of  the 
Massachusetts  State  Historical  Society.  And  how,  seeing 
the  look  of  frozen  horror  that  had  come  over  my  face  at 
her  words,  she  burst  into  a  storm  of  sobs  and  confessed 
that  she  loved  me  madly — better  even  than  she  did  Emer- 
son's works  or  Darwin's  paper  on  the  scomberoid  fishes 
of  the  pliocene  period — but  that  the  fact  of  my  never 
having  studied  Greek  had  risen  like  an  impassable  barrier 
between  us.  Ah,  me!  How  well  I  remember  it — "  and, 
taking  a  large,  rectangular  chew  of  plug  tobacco,  Alex- 
ander Nonesuch  sank  back  on  the  carriage  seat  and 
thought  of  the  past. 

At  last  the  carriage  stops,  and  the  young  man  enters.a 
house  whose  palatial  appointments  show  it  to  be  the  home 
of  wealth  and  culture.  Scarcely  has  the  servant  con- 
ducted him  to  the  parlor,  when  a  beautiful  girl,  tall  and 
fair  as  a  lily  and  stately  as  a  footman,  enters  the  room. 
"Good  evening,"  she  says  in  a  cheery  voice. 

"Good  evening,"  replies  Alexander;  "are  you  ready?" 

For  answer  she  puts  out  a  tiny  foot,  and  he  sees  that 
she  is  wearing  her  overshoes.  Rising  silently  he  escorts 
her  to  the  carriage  and  places  her  on  the  back  seat,  while 
he  occupies  the  other  one.  "  We  are  having  fine  weather," 
he  says,  as  the  carriage  rolls  rapidly  away. 

The  girl  assents  to  his  meteorological  statement  with  a 
brisk  nod  of  her  pretty  head. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  25 1 


"It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  take  me  to  the  opera,  I'm 
sure,"  she  continues. 

"Yes,"  he  answers,  "it  was." 
******* 

Four  months  have  passed.  The  June  roses,  fairest  and 
most  welcome  of  all  flowers,  are  bursting  into  blossom. 
Down  a  shaded  path,  above  which  the  cypress  trees  are 
bending,  Alexander  Nonesuch  and  Beryl  Clearsides  are 
walking.  The  crickets  are  chirping  shrilly  in  the  grass, 
and  to  the  westward  is  heard  the  murmurous  breathing 
of  a  large  brindle  cow.  All  nature  seems  hushed  in 
sweet  repose. 

"You  have  never  kissed  me  yet,"  the  girl  says,  bending 
over  him  tenderly. 

"No,"  he  replies.     "  Kissing  is  wrong." 

They  walk  on  silently  for  a  moment.     Then  the  man* 
speaks. 

"And  so  you  think,"  he  says,  "that  we  had  better  be 
married  at  once? " 

"Yes,"  she  replies.  "If  we  are  to  keep  house  it  will 
be  cheaper." 

"Why?"  he  asks. 

"Because,"  she  answers,  "you  will  probably  hang 
around  pretty  steadily  for  the  first  six  months  and  we 
shall  not  need  a  refrigerator." 


252  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


HOW  SHE  SAVED  HIM. 

"  My  God!     This  is  terrible!  " 

The  black  waters  sweep  by  in  a  maddening  rush,  hiss- 
ing and  seething  as  they  go,  as  if  their  weird  voices  were 
in  accord  with  the  dreadful  scenes  around  them.  Now 
these  voices  seem  to  rise  on  the  air  in  low,  mournful 
tones  as  if  chanting  a  requiem  for  the  souls  of  the  dead 
whose  bodies  are  borne  swiftly  forward  on  the  black 
bosom  of  the  torrent,  and  the  next  moment  there  comes 
up  from  its  turbid  depths  what  seems  to  be  a  horrible, 
exultant  chuckle,  as  if  some  demon  were  laughing  to 
himself  at  the  ruin  and  death  which  meet  the  eye  on 
every  side.  And  then,  when  this  noise — so  eerie  and 
unnatural  at  such  a  time — has  died  away,  one  hears  only 
the  swish  and  swirl  that  are  inseparable  from  the  move- 
ment of  a  large  body  of  water,  with  now  and  then  the 
crush  of  a  falling  building  or  the  shrill,  horrified  shriek 
of  some  drowning  wretch  whose  struggles  against  death 
in  its  most  horrible  form  have  been  in  vain. 

Cincinnati  is  inundated.  For  days  and  days  the  waters 
have  been  rising — slowly,  it  is  true,  but  each  succeeding 
night  has  seen  the  uncanny  monster  that  seeks  to  destroy 
the  city  draw  nearer  and  nearer.  There  is  no  noise,  no 
shout  of  foemen  or  thundering  cannon  as  when  armies 
meet,  but  it  is  the  very  absence  of  this  chance  for  action 
that  makes  the  situation  all  the  more  terrible.  The  cold, 
black  waters  have  been  on  every  side,  waiting  patiently 
for  the  moment  when,  with  one  mad  rush,  they  shall  leap 
down  upon  their  prey  as  the  tiger  springs  from  the  jungle 
upon  the  unsuspecting  traveler,  and  engulf  alike  the 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  253 


living  and  the  dead.  That  time  has  come,  and  with  a 
hoarse  roar  of  triumph  the  hungry  demons  of  the  deep 
have  worked  the  destruction  of  everything  th;:t  opposed 
them.  What  were  once  streets  filled  with  people  are  now 
great  rivers,  and  on  their  surface  is  to  be  seen  the  debris 
of  a  wrecked  and  ruined  city.  And  mingled  in  this 
debris  are  dead  bodies — wrecks  of  humanity  with  which 
the  pitiless  waters  are  hurrying  away. 

It  is  the  incarnation  of  ruin. 

Two  young  men,  Gaston  and  Victor — stout  young  fol- 
lowers of  the  type  one  sees  so  often  among  the  peasantry 
of  Brittany,  but  with  features  that  show  refinement  and 
education — are  standing  at  one  of  the  upper  windows  of 
a  building  that  has  not  yet  succumbed  to  the  flood.  But 
its  time  of  destruction  is  close  at  hand.  Already  the 
walls  are  crumbling,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  noble 
edifice,  but  yesterday  so  proud  and  stately,  will  have  gone 
down  in  the  general  ruin.  The  young  men  know  this. 
Their  cheeks  are  blanched.  They  know  that  soon  there 
will  begin  for  them  a  struggle  with  death  which  can  end 
only  in  defeat.  The  lips  of  Victor  move,  but  the  words 
they  are  uttering  are  rendered  inaudible  by  the  roar  of 
the  waters.  His  companion  shouts  to  him: 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asks. 

"  Praying  for  my  parents.  My  death  will  kill  them. 
They  live  in  Coshocton." 

"I  also  have  parents,"  says  Gaston.  "They  live  in 
Akron.  Include  them  in  your  prayers." 

Victor  nods  his  head. 

Suddenly  Gaston  utters  a  cry.  "My  God!"  he  says. 
"Look!" 

Victor  raises  his  head.     Coming  swiftly  towards  them 


254  LAKESIDE  ^fU  SINGS. 


is  a  beautiful  girl.  She  is  drowning.  Gaston  shrieks  again. 
"  It  is  Beryl !  "  he  cries.  "  Beryl  Hopkins,  my  betrothed !  " 
As  he  shouts  the  name  to  Victor  the  winds  bear  his 
voice  to  the  girl,  and  she  recognizes  her  lover.  With 
the  sight  all  he-r  strength  seems  to  return.  "  Thank  God !  " 
she  exclaims  in  clarion  tones,  "  I  can  save  you,  although 
I  myself  must  die,"  and  by  a  mighty  effort  she  plunges 
one  hand  beneath  the  waters.  In  a  moment  it  reappears, 
grasping  something  which,  as  she  sinks  for  the  last  time 
beneath  the  waters,  the  noble  girl  hurls  through  the 

window  at  which  Gaston  and  Victor  are  standing. 
******* 

Five  minutes  later  the  building  has  sunk  beneath  the 
seething  torrent,  but  Gaston  and  Victor  are  safe — float- 
ing securely  down  the  stream  in  a  craft  which  no  storm, 
however  severe,  can  wreck.  Gaston  sits  in  its  stern, 
guiding  its  course,  while  Victor  sleeps  peacefully  under 
the  bulwarks. 

She  had  thrown  them  her  overshoe. 


POETRY  ON  TAP. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  poetry  editor,"  said  a  young  lady 
who  stepped  very  briskly  into  the  room — "the  gentleman 
that  puts  all  those  lovely  pieces  in  the  paper  every  Satur- 
day. Don't  you  think  they're  sweet  ?  " 

The  horse  reporter  nodded  acquiescence  in  the  saccha- 
rine character  of  the  efforts  alluded  to. 

"  I  would  like  to  see  him  personally,"  continued  the 
young  lady,  "because  it  would  be  so  nice  to  talk  with  him 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  255 


about  Tennyson,  and  Longfellow,  and  all  those  other  dear 
old  things,  wouldn't  it?" 

The  personal  friend  of  Maud  S.  again  inclined  his 
head. 

"  You  don't  think  he'll  be  in  again  this  afternoon,  do 
you?  I'd  like  awfully  to  see  him.  But  perhaps  you  can 
help  me.  I'm  in  an  awful  fix." 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  horse  reporter. 

"  Why,"  continued  the  young  lady,  "  I  live  over  on  the 
West  Side,  and  we've  got  a  literary  society,  and  at  the 
next  meeting  I  am  down  to  read  a  paper  on  '  Poetry  as 
an  Art,'  and — " 

"  Is  poetry  an  art  ? "  asked  the  horse  reporter.  "  I 
thought  it  was  an  affliction." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  the  young  lady, 
"but  anyhow  I've  got  to  get  up  this  paper,  and  it  occurred 
to  me  that  perhaps  one  of  you  editors  could  assist  me.  I 
want  to  get  some  extracts  from  the  works  of  our  best- 
known  poets  to  illustrate  what  I  shall  say.  Now  there's 
Mr.  Tennyson,  for  instance;  he's  written  some  fine  poetry, 
hasn't  he? " 

"Yes.  Alf  has  occasionally  shot  some  pretty  fair 
verse  athwart  the  literary  horizon." 

"Could  you  give  me  a  specimen  of  his  style?"  eagerly 
asked  the  young  lady.  "  I  never  read  a  line  of  those  big 
poets  in  my  life — nothing  but  what  THE  TRIBUNE  poets 
write." 

"We  have  got  some  daisies  from  Daisyville  on  our 
staff,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "but  if  you  want  a  few 
gems  from  the  old  masters  I  suppose  you  can  have  them. 
Tennyson's  'May  Queen'  is  one  of  his  most  popular 
poems.  Want  some  of  that  ? " 


256  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"Why,  yes,  I  should  think  two  or  three  verses  would  be 
just  the  thing." 

"Well,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "it  goes  like  this": 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear: 

To-morrow'll  be  the  boss  old  day  for  pop  and  ginger  beer; 

And  when  they  strike  the  pie,  mother,  I'll  say  my  little  say — 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  of  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  of  the  May. 

There's  many  a  nifty  girl,  they  say,  but  none  lays  over  me; 
There's  Margaret,  and  Mary,  and  cross-eyed  Lucy  Lee; 
But  you  bet  your  life  I  take  the  cake,  and  of  biscuit  sweep  the  tray; 
So  I'm  to  be  Queen  of  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  of  the  May. 

"  Do  you  think  that  is  enough?"  asked  the  young  lady. 

"O  yes;  these  verses  will  give  'em  an  idea  of  Alf's 
gait.  Variety  is  what  they  want,  you  know.  You  ought 
to  have  something  from  Bryant.  His  '  Indian  Girl's 
Lament'  is  pretty  well  thought  of." 

"  Is  it?  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I  shall  leave  it  all  to 
you." 

"Well,  I  can  give  you  a  chunk  of  it." 

"  Do,  if  you  please." 

"  This  is  the  way  it  starts  ": 

An  Indian  girl  was  sitting  where 
Her  lover,  Walking-Flea-Patch,  lay; 

Beside  her  stood  a  spavined  horse 
That  sadly  chewed  some  musty  hay. 

Upon  a  stump  herself  she  flung, 
And  then  this  simple  lay  she  sung: 

"  I've  placed  the  bottle  at  your  head 

O  Walking-Flea-Patch,  so  that  when 

You  strike  the  town  and  paint  it  red 
You  will  not  miss  your  Laughing-Hen, 

Who,  sitting  in  the  wigwam,  will 
Adore  her  noble  warrior  still." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  257 


"Now,  you  see,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "those  se- 
lections cover  the  childish  glee  and  loving  trustfulness 
rackets.  What  you  want  to  finish  with  is  something 
pathetic — something  that  will  make  the  young  women 
sniffle.  Hood's  '  Song  of  the  Shirt '  ought  to  do  that 
nicely.  Suppose  we  sling  'em  a  few  lines  of  that." 

Very  well,"  said  the  young  lady.  "  You  know  I  depend 
wholly  on  your  judgment  in  this  matter." 

"Well,  here  it  is": 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

In  a  little  five-room  flat, 
A  woman  sat  with  eyelids  red 

Trying  to  trim  a  hat. 
Rip,  turn,  twist, 

Then  give  it  a  spiteful  flirt, 
While  beside  her  lies  like  a  ghostly  thing 

Her  husband's  buttonless  shirt. 

O  girls,  with  brothers  dear! 

O  girls  who  hope  to  be  wives! 
Remember  that  shirts  with  buttons  are 

The  dream  of  men's  hard  lives! 
Rip,  turn,  twist, 

Till  your  hands  are  weary  and  worn — 
But  the  winds  will  sweep  with  a  wailing  sigh 

Through  the  pants  that  are  ever  torn. 

"You're  very  kind,"  said  the  young  lady,  preparing  to 

go- 

"  Don't  mention  it.     Come  in  again  when  you  think  we 

are  all  out." 


17 


558  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


FORGAVE  HER  PARENT. 

"  Do  you  dance?" 

"  No,  I  dropped  on  myself  two  seasons  ago,"  was  the 
response,  in  a  strong,  manly  voice. 

Veronica  McGuire  looked  up  at  George  W.  Simpson, 
an  expression  of  wonder  and  surprise  in  her  soft,  velvety 
eyes.  Very  beautiful  was  this  girl,  as  she  stood  in  the 
dim,  half-light  of  the  conservatory,  the  pearly  flesh  and 
rounded  curves  of  her  arms  and  shoulders  seeming  more 
than  humanly  beautiful,  while  the  rose-laden  air  of  the 
place  seemed  only  fit  to  kiss  the  wine-red  lips  of  so 
wonderfully  fair  a  maiden. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  do  not  dance,  Mr.  Simpson,"  said 
Veronica,  after  a  momentary  pause,  "because  it  is  really 
the  one  thing  in  which  I  may  truthfully  lay  claim  to  being 
proficient.  As  you  have  no  doubt  discovered  before  this, 
I  am  a  wretched  hand  at  conversation,  an  original  idea 
never  seeming  to  find  birth  in  this  empty  head  of  mine." 

George  looked  fondly  down  upon  her  bang.  "  I  am 
afraid  you  are  rather  inclined  to  deprecate  your  own  abili- 
ties," he  said,  throwing  just  a  shade  of  tenderness  into 
the  rich  tones  of  his  pure  voice.  "  You  play  nicely,  and 
you  certainly  sing  well." 

"Only  passably,  my  dear  Mr.  Simpson,"  was  the  laugh- 
ing reply;  "you  really  must  not  flatter  me  too  much, 
because  I  am  vain  enough  already.  But,  by  the  way> 
have  you  heard  '  Over  the  Garden  Wall '  yet? " 

"  No,"  was  the  reply  in  tones  that  were  tremulous  with 
emotion,  "  I  never  heard  the  tune,  but  I  have  had  occasion 
to  go  over  the  wall  once  or  twice." 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  259 


"  It  is  a  beautiful  thing,  said  Veronica.  "  There  is  a 
weird  sadness,  and  yet  joy,  about  the  music  that  carries 
one  completely  away.  Do  you  not  find  it  BO  oftentimes? " 

"Yes,"  replied  George,  "it  is  pretty  darn  weird  to  get 
over  a  wall  on  a  dark  night  and  dive  down  into  an  alley 
that  you  don't  know  anything  about." 

"You  are  just  too  funny!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  looking 
at  him  steadily.  As  she  did  so  his  eyes  met  hers,  and  the 
rich  color  flooded  her  cheeks,  making  them  more  radiantly 
beautiful  than  ever.  Turning  quickly,  she  stood  with 
averted  face  and  downcast  eyes,  and  for  a  moment  no 
word  was  spoken.  Finally,  George  stepped  to  Veronica's 
side  and  took  the  little  hand  that  was  toying  with  a  rose 
into  his  broad  palm.  She  did  not  start,  or  seek  to  with- 
draw it. 

[Right  here  it  might  be  stated  that  Chicago  girls  are 
warranted  not  to  shy.] 

George  held  the  dimpled  prisoner  for  a  moment,  and 
then  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"Mr.  Simpson!  "  exclaimed  the  girl,  "you  do  not  seem 
to  know  what  you  are  doing.  Remember,  sir,  that — " 

"Oh,  I  know  all  about  it,"  said  George.  "  I  know  that 
you  are  rich  and  uneducated,  and  that  you  can  never 
hope  to  soar  in  the  empyrean  heights  of  literature  and 
knowledge  where  I  reside  permanently.  But,  my  love 
for  your  father's  check-book  will  overcome  all  this.  I 
appreciate  fully  the  sacrifice  I  am  making,  but  you  must 
not  seek  to  dissuade  me." 

"And  do  you  then  love  me  so  clearly,  George?"  the 
girl  asked. 

"Certainly,  my  darling.  Without  your  love  life  would 
be  nothing  but  a  four-flush  to  me.  All  my  happiness  is 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


centered  In  my  love  for  you.     Can  you  deliderately  cast 
that  love  aside,  darling?" 

For  answer  she  raised  her  pure,  sweet  face  to  his,  and 
placed  a  large  three-for-fifty-cents  kiss  on  his  innocent 
Wabash  avenue  lips. 


THE   RESULT  OF  A   RAISE. 

Out  upon  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  star-lit  night 
pealed  the  tones  of  the  church  bells — those  brazen- 
throated  harbingers  of  peace  and  good  will  to  men. 
Sweet  was  their  jangling  as  they  rang  out  to  all  alike — 
the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  old  and  the  young,  the  invalid 
on  a  bed  of  pain  and  the  sturdy  man  who  had  never 
known  sickness — a  farewell  to  the  old  year  that  would 
so  soon  be  gone  forever. 

It  was  on  this  night — a  night  whose  every  hour  is  hal- 
lowed and  softened  by  the  tender  memories  that  cluster 
round  the  latest  moments  of  a  dying  year,  that  Pansy 
Perkins,  the  soft-eyed,  olive-skinned  belle  of  the  social 
circle  in  which  she  moved,  stood  beneath  the  mellow  glow 
of  a  turned-down  gas  jet  in  the  parlor  of  her  father's 
palatial  residence  and  looked,  with  a  sad,  pitying  expres- 
sion on  her  pure,  North  Side  features,  at  a  young  man 
who  was  nervously  pulling  at  a  don't-look-cross-or-it-will- 
fade-away-mustache,  while  a  look  of  pain  flitted  ever  and 
anon  across  his  features. 

"  No,  Cigarette-Charley,"  she  said,  using  the  name  by 
which  he  was  known  among  the  wild,  reckless  set  with 
which  he.  associated;  "I  can  never  be  your  bride.  I 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  261 


know  that  you  love  me  deeply  and  truly,  and  that  to  win 
a  love  like  yours  is  something  of  which  any  woman  might 
be  proud.  I  will  not  deny,  Reginald  " — and  here  the  girl 
stepped  closer  to  him  and  placed  a  soft,  white  hand  in 
his,  while  the  deep,  brown  eyes  that  could  lure  a  soul 
through  Inferno  or  to  St.  Louis  gleamed  forth  with  a 
topaz  tint  that  intoxicated  with  the  sweet  nectar  of  love 
all  who  came  within  their  gaze — "that  with  you  I  could 
live  happily  forever  in  the  Lotus  islands  of  a  Chicago 
boarding-house,  but  my  father  says — and  you  know  now 
I  adore  my  dear,  kind  papa — that  you  are  not  of  the  ner- 
vously-active, pushing  sort  that  always  gets  ahead  in  the 
world;  that  he  does  not  object  to  my  marrying  a  poor 
man,  but  that  man  must  be  one  who  will  rise  in  the  world 
— 'a  hustler  from  Hustletown,'  as  dear  papa  says.  So  we 
must  part." 

"  Pansy — Miss  Perkins,"  said  Reginald  in  those  deep, 
thrilling  tones  of  his.  "  I  can  not — indeed  I  can  not  let 
you  go!  Stay  one  moment — only  one  moment!" 

How  that  rich  voice  rang  in  her  ears!  Despite  herself  it 
moved  her  strangely.  "  Very  well,"  she  said,  "  I  will  stay." 

Darting  hastily  to  the  hat-rack  in  the  front  hall  Regi- 
nald fumbled  for  a  moment  in  the  upper  left-hand  pocket 
of  his  overcoat  and  drew  therefrom  a  piece  of  white  paper. 
Returning  to  the  parlor  he  knelt  beside  the  fauteuil  on 
which  Pansy  had  thrown  herself  in  an  agony  of  grief,  and 
kissed  away  the  bitter  tears  of  pain  and  sorrow  that  were 
welling  up  into  the  beautiful  brown  eyes. 

"  See,  my  darling,"  he  exclaimed  eagerly,  placing  the 
paper  before  her.  "  Look  at  this,  my  precious  one." 

Pansy  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed  languidly  at  the 
paper.  "What  is  it,  Tootsie?"  she  murmured. 


262  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


Drawing  himself  up  proudly,  and  holding  in  one  hand 
the  paper  and  in  the  other  his  pan-cake  hat,  Reginald 
Green  said  in  proud  tones: 

"  It  is  a  notice  of  my  promotion  to  the  ribbon  counter. 
Hereafter  my  salary  will  be  twelve  dollars  per  week. 
Pansy,  my  precious  one,  we  are  saved." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him  lovingly.  "  You  bet  we  are," 
she  said,  and  her  arms  were  clasped  about  his  thirteen- 
inch  neck  in  an  ecstacy  of  passion. 


MYRTLE  GOT  THERE. 

"Has  Myrtle  come  home?" 

The  speaker  was  a  richly-dressed  woman  of  perhaps 
forty  summers,  although  it  might  have  been  possible  to 
have  added  an  autumn,  and  perhaps  a  couple  of  late 
springs  to  the  account  that  Time,  that  faithful  but  relent- 
less chronicler  of  the  word's  doings,  its  lights  and  shades, 
its  gala  days  and  sorrowful  anniversaries,  had  slowly  but 
s  -irely  set  opposite  her  name  on  the  closely-written  pages 
of  that  book  which  no  man  has  read. 

The  person  to  whom  she  spoke — a  delicately-formed 
girl  with  deep,  hazel  eyes  and  flaxen  hair  that  hung 
between  her  faultlessly-molded,  but  not  too  fat,  shoulders 
in  a  simple  braid,  looking  not  unlike  a  new  rope  tug  of 
the  kind  used  on  horse-cars — stood  on  the  veranda  of  a 
handsome  villa  in  the  south  of  England,  tapping  gently 
with  a  croquet-mallet  which  she  held  in  her  hand  a  tiny 
foot  that  peeped  out  from  beneath  the  fleecy  folds  of  her 
piegnoir  dress.  Suddenly  she  started  slightly,  and  a  look 


LAKESIDE  Ml' SI.VGS.  263 


of  pain  passed  over  the  delicately-chiseled  features  of 
her  perfect  face. 

She  had  hit  her  corn. 

This  corn  was  the  only  sad  chord  in  the  otherwise 
perfect  symphony  of  Ethelberta  De  Courcey's  life. 
Often  when  gliding  dreamily  through  the  measures  of  a 
soft,  sensuous  waltz  that  set  all  her  senses  pulsing  in 
harmony  to  the  music,  her  nose  resting  trustfully  on  the 
shoulder  of  Percy  Montrose,  her  affianced,  had  she  been 
suddenly  called  back  from  the  beautiful  realms  of  rose- 
tinted  meditation  by  some  one  stepping  on  her  corn. 
Sometimes  in  the  desolate  moments  that  followed  one  of 
these  painful  society  events  she  would  almost  sob  out  her 
grief  to  the  world,  and  often  in  the  still  watches  of  the 
night  would  come  to  her  the  thought  that  even  a  bunion 
would  have  been  better. 

Although  of  a  timid,  shrinking  nature,  and  possessed 
of  a  reserve  that  insurance  companies  might  envy, 
Ethelberta  had  an  iron  will,  copper-fastened  and  clinched 
on  both  sides,  and  a  proud  spirit  that  could  not  brook  the 
slightest  affront.  In  point  of  spirit  and  reserve  no  girl 
among  the  proud  aristocracy  of  haughty  Albion  was  bet- 
ter fixed.  Once,  when  an  elder  sister  had  in  a  moment 
of  passion  charged  her  with  eating  slate-pencils  to  im- 
prove her  complexion,  Ethelberta  had  only  looked  at  her 
with  an  expression  of  withering  scorn,  and  said  calmly, 
"I  shall  never  speak  to  you  again." 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  she  borrowed  the  other 
girl's  chew  of  gum. 

Percy  Montrose  was  the  only  man  she  had  ever  loved. 
He  was  a  handsome,  manly-looking  fellow  of  twenty-six, 
and  came  of  an  ancient  Saxon  family  that  got  a  start  in 


264  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


life  by  stealing  evergreen  trees  in  Norway  about  Christ- 
mas time  and  shipping  them  to  England.  Ethelberta  did 
not  know  this.  The  one  thought  of  her  life  was  that  she 
loved  Percy  with  a  wild,  passionate  love  that  was  almost 
wicked  in  its  intensity.  He  was  in  her  thoughts  by  day 
and  her  dreams  by  night.  She  had  told  him  of  her  love 
freely  and  fully.  Often,  when  sitting  on  his  trusty  right 
knee  in  the  parlor  of  her  father's  house,  her  head  resting 
in  perfect  confidence  just  below  his  clavicle  and  above 
his  right  lung,  had  she  murmured  softly  to  him  that  she 
lived  only  for  his  love,  and  that  without  the  oasis  of  his 
affection  life  would  be  a  dreary  desert  upon  which  the 
sun  beat  pitilessly  down. 

It  is  not  every  young  man  that  can  be  an  oasis  all  by 
himself,  and  Percy  naturally  felt  pretty  corky  about  the 
fact. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Shortly  after  Ethelberta's  mother  had  gone  over  town 
and  left  her  daughter  standing  on  the  porch,  alone  with 
her  thoughts  and  corn,  Percy  Montrose  came  sauntering 
up  the  graveled  walk  that  wandered  gracefully  through 
the  front  yard  until  it  reached  the  sidewalk.  The  girl 
greeted  him  with  effusion  and  a  kiss.  He  took  both. 

In  a  little  wljile  they  walked  together  to  the  croquet- 
lawn  and  began  to  play.  Both  were  experts  at  the  game 
and  neither  could  gain  an  advantage.  Finally  Ethelberta's 
ball  was  in  a  favorable  position.  With  her  dainty  foot 
upon  the  ball,  and  mallet  upraised,  she  was  the  picture  of 
beauty  and  grace.  Should  she  make  the  shot  the  game 
would  be  over.  Just  as  the  mallet  was  descending  with 
a  graceful  sweep,  Percy's  voice  was  heard. 

"You  garter  has  come  down,"  he  said. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  265 


The  mallet  fell  with  crushing  force.  There  was  a  wild 
whoop  of  anguish,  and  Ethelberta  fluttered  toward  the 
house  on  one  leg  like  a  wounded  bird.  She  had  hit  the 
corn,  and  never  spoke  to  Percy  again. 

"  Did  Myrtle  come  home? "  some  may  ask  who  remem- 
ber the  opening  sentence  of  this  story. 

I  should  smile.  She  not  only  came  home,  but  she 
played  out  the  game  with  Percy,  and  subsequently  mar- 
ried him. 


WHY  SHE  LOVED  HIM. 

"Bon  soir,  ma  cher." 

"So  long,  Charlie." 

Winsome  Lillian  McGuire  touched  with  ruby-red  lips 
the  tips  of  her  taper  fingers  and  flung  the  kiss  after  Vivi- 
an Featherstone  as  he  sauntered  carelessly  down  Blue 
Island  avenue.  She  could  never  bear  to  call  him  Vivian, 
because  her  brother  had  once  lost  eighteen  dollars  on  a 
horse  of  that  name,  and  ever  afterwards  it  recalled  a 
flood  of  bitter  recollections  as  she  thought  of  how  Ber- 
tram McGuire  came  home  that  fateful  evening  and  placed 
his  boots  carefully  on  the  piano  before  retiring  to  rest  in 
the  little  chintz-curtained  bed  that  had  held  him  since  the 
days  when  he  was  a  prattling  child — the  pet  and  pride  of 
the  family.  She  had  seen  him  putting  on  his  hat  with  a 
shoe-horn  the  next  morning,  and  wept  bitter,  scalding 
tears  to  think  that  one  so  noble,  so  fly,  should  not  know 
enough  to  get  a  bottle  of  seltzer  aperient  in  such  a  time 
of  desolation.  "  But  he  is  my  brother,  my  only  brother,' 


266  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


Lillian  had  said  to  herself,  "and  I  will  not  desert  him, 
even  if  he  is  a  chump  about  some  things."  So  she  had 
gone  to  him  softly  as  he  stood  in  the  front  hall  trying  to 
put  a  number  nine  head  into  a  number  seven  hat,  had  put 
her  arms  caressingly  around  his  neck,  and  said:  "Why 
don't  you  drop  on  yourself,  and  get  a  soda  cocktail?" 

She  spoke  the  words  in  a  tenderly  tremulous  voice — a 
voice  almost  choked  with  the  sobs  that  were  welling  up 
from  her  beautiful  bosom  at  the  thought  that  a  McGuire 
should  be  so  beautiful  and  yet  so  raw. 

It  was  in  the  ripe  September  days  following  this  event 
that  she  became  acquainted  with  Vivian  Featherstone. 
He  brought  Bertram  home  in  a  hack  one  evening,  stood 
him  up  gently  against  the  front  door,  and  rang  the  bell 
with  a  tender  pathos  that  told  its  own  story.  When  Lil- 
lian went  down-stairs  and  let  her  brother  fall  into  the 
front  hall  she  found  in  his  overcoat  pocket  three  lemons. 
With  a  woman's  instinct  she  knew  at  once  that  Vivian 
had  placed  them  there.  "  How  thoughtfully  kind  of 
him,"  she  said,  as  the  thought  of  how  Bertram's  head 
would  ache  in  the  morning  came  over  her. 

They  did  not  meet,  however,  until  some  weeks  later, 
when  a  soiree  dansante  at  the  house  of  a  mutual  acquaint- 
ance brought  them  together.  An  introduction  followed, 
and  the  usual  light  conversation  of  the  ball-room  was 
begun.  Vivian  spoke  about  the  new  theory  of  horizontal 
cleavage  in  red  sandstone,  and  from  that  their  talk  natur- 
ally drifted  to  the  subject  of  the  new  Court  House. 

"I  saw  you  going  past  there  the  other  day,"  said 
Vivian. 

"  Indeed!  "  was  Lillian's  reply.  "  And  why  should  you 
notice  me? " 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  267 


"  Because  of  the  peculiar  color  of  the  ribbons  on 
your  hat,"  he  said. 

The  girl  blushed  deeply. 

"  Why  do  you  wear  lemon-colored  ribbons  on  a  dark 
hat?"  he  asked,  bending  over  her  tenderly,  and  taking 
her  little  white  hand  in  his. 

''  Can  you  not  guess? "  was  the  reply.  "  Do  you 
not  remember  the  night  that  Bertram  was  paralyzed  ? 
I  found  the  lemons  in  his  overcoat  pocket,  and  my 
heart  told  me  who  had  placed  them  there.  Is  it  strange 
that  I  should  love  one  who  was  so  kind  to  my  dear 
brother?" 

"And  do  you  really  love  me,  Lilliai?"  he  asked,  in 
eager  tones. 

For  answer  the  little  head  dropped  on  his  shoulder. 
He  raised  it  gently  and  looked  into  the  pure  sweet  face 
uplifted  to  his.  '•  Have  I  won  you,  my  angel  ?"  he  mur- 
mured in  low,  earnest  tones. 

"  I  should  twitter,"  was  the  girl's  reply,  and  again  her 
head  sought  his  shoulder. 


SOCIAL  ROMANCE. 

"  Good-bye,  Myrtle." 

"  So  long,  McGuire,"  replied  the  girl — a  tall,  lissome 
beauty  with  dark,  gleaming  eyes  and  a  wealth  of  auburn 
tresses  that  would  have  been  red  anywhere  outsiJe  of  a 
novel.  She  stood  on  the  veranda  that  June  evening,  the 
honeysuckles  clustering  in  vivid  beauty  all  around  her, 
while  he  to  whom  she  spoke  lingered  at  the  foot  of  the 


268  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


steps,  standing  there  irresolutely,  with  the  evident  hope 
that  the  proud  beauty,  whose  four-clollars-per-pair  silk 
stockings  he  saw  gleaming  fitfully  in  the  half-light  of  the 
gloaming,  would  say  the  word  that  would  bring  him  back 
to  her  side  to  seal  again  with  burning  kisses  and 
honeyed  words  of  love  the  vows  that  had  been  but  just 
broken. 

"  Must  I  go,  sweetheart? "  asked  Ethelbert,  looking 
up  with  a  wistful,  will-it-ever-quit-raining-during-race- 
week  expression  on  his  pallid  face. 

"  No,  Ice-Cream  Charlie,"  replied  Myrtle,  using  the  pet 
name  by  which  he  was  known  at  home;  "you  had  better 
go  away  and  try  to  forget  me — try  to  let  the  pleasures 
which  men  have  always  at  their  command,  sweep  away 
from  the  horizon  of  your  life  the  black  pall  of  disap- 
pointment that  now  hangs  so  heavily  athwart  its  utter- 
most rim.  My  faith  in  you,  once  so  strong  and  bright, 
is  gone  forever,  and  it  is  best  that  we  should  part 
now. 

"  There  can  be  no  revocation  of  this  cruel  sentence, 
then? "  he  asked. 

"None,  whatever,"  was  the  girl's  reply.  "  I  have  twit- 
tered, and  my  chirp  admits  of  no  recall." 

Ethelbert  went  sadly  away. 
******* 

A  year  has  passed.  The  winter,  which  came  so  sud- 
denly and  crept  gently  along  in  soft,  white  snowy  robes, 
has  gone.  The  sweet  spring  days,  with  perfumy  hints  of 
rose  and  woodbine,  and  fresh  emerald  leaves  and  climb- 
ing vines,  and  bursting  blossoms,  is  here.  In  the  parlors 
of  a  stately  residence  a  gay  company  of  young  people 
are  assembled.  It  is  the  last  party  of  the  season,  and 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  '  269 


Myrtle  Hathaway,  the  acknowledged  belle  of  the  year,  is 
as  usual  the  centre  of  attraction.  She  stands  with 
charming  grace  beside  a  marble  figure  of  Psyche  that 
ornaments  a  recess  in  the  conservatory,  and  is  chatting 
gaily  with  Bertie  Cecil — "handsome  Bertie,"  the  women 
call  him — who  has  the  beauty  of  an  Apollo  and  the  savoir 
rirrc  of  a  hired  man. 

"  What  has  become  of  Ethelbert  McGuire? "  Myrtle 
suddenly  asks,  "  I  have  not  seen  him  in  ever  so  long." 

Bertie  looks  at  her  with  an  astonished  expression. 
"  Do  you  not  know,  then?  "  he  says. 

The  girl  shakes  her  head. 

"  I  supposed  you  had  heard,"  he  said.  "  Ethelbert  met 
with  a  disappointment  about  a  year  ago;  the  old  story, 
they  tell  me,  of  a  man's  love  for  a  faithless  woman.  He 
never  speaks  of  the  matter,  but  God  knows  he  suffers 
enough.  It  is  not  a  light  grief  that  will  make  a  man 
indulge  in  dissipation  until  his  life  is  a  wreck." 

Myrtle's  face  became  pallid.  "  Is  he  so  very  dissipated? " 
she  asked. 

•'  I  should  gasp,"  replied  Bertie.  "  He  smokes  cig- 
arettes every  day  now." 

Myrtle  reeled,  and  would  have  fallen  had  not  Bertie 
caught  her.  "  You  are  ill,  Miss  Hathaway,"  he  exclaimed 
in  anxious  tones.  "  Something  I  have  said  has  caused 
this." 

Recovering  herself  by  a  mighty  effort,  Myrtle  spoke: 
"  I  am  better  now,"  she  said.  "  It  was  nothing  but  the 
pie." 

"Ah,"  said  Bertie,  "  I  had  forgotten  the  pie." 


270  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


DIDN'T  GET  IN. 

The  Old  Subscriber  came  up  stairs  and  to  the  editor 
Remarked  that  if  a  paper  wasn't  managed  solely  for 
The  public  weal,  he'd  missed  his  guess  considerably  far. 

"  I've  noticed  in  your  journal   that  the  price  of  wheat  and  oats 
Is  daily  placed  on  record,  likewise  Legislative  votes — 
A  vigilant  reporter  all  the  wicked  doings  notes 

"  But  here's  a  little  matter  that  you  seem  to  have  forgot: 
My  answer  to  the  theory  that  worlds  are  made  red-hot — 
It  shows  that  more  than  Huxley  knows  each  night  I  have  forgot." 

Up  spoke  the  weary  editor  unto  the  aged  man: 

"I'll  print  your  able  argument — that  is  whene'er  I  can; 

But  just  at  present  we  are  working  things  down  to  hard-pan." 

The  Old  Subscriber  still  comes  'round;  his  faith  has  never  swerved. 

His  essay  upon  nebulae  a  better  fate  deserved; 

But  it  forms  the  lower  stratum  of  a  pile  that's  marked  "  reserved." 


CAMILLE. 

The  south  wind  is  sighing  softly  among  the  sturdy 
oaks,  whose  leafy  branches  shield  from  the  pitiless  rays 
of  a  July  sun  the  velvety-soft  lawn  that  stretches  away 
to  the  eastward  in  front  of  a  lovely  Du  Page  County 
villa.  On  the  veranda  stands  a  girl,  lovely  beyond  com- 
pare, to  whom  a  man — one  whose  sunny  locks  and  beard 
of  tawny  gold  hue  tell  plainly  of  the  Saxon  blood  that 
flows  in  his  veins — is  talking  in  an  earnest  manner. 
There  is  a  loving  look  in  his  soft,  blue  eyes,  and  he  speaks 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


271 


with  a  tender  earnestness  that  shows  he  is  trying  to  get 
there.  The  girl  is  tapping  lightly  with  a  croquet-mallet 
the  pretty  foot  that  peeps  out  half  timidly  from  beneath 
the  pretty  morning  dress  of  soft,  blue  cloth,  with  two 
rows  of  ruffles  up  the  back-stretch,  and  a  polonaise  that 
never  cost  less  than  twenty-two  dollars. 

"Well,  Bertrace,  have  you  concluded  to  shake  me?" 
says  the  man. 

The  sunbeams  flicker  erratically  down  between  the 
leaves,  making  little  lights  and  shades  on  the  veranda; 
the  grasshoppers  sing  among  the  red  clovers;  the  little 
foot,  which  has  suspended  its  movement  during  the 
delivery  of  this  interrogatory,  resumes  its  occupation. 
Adelbert's  gaze  is  still  fastened  upon  the  pretty  face  that 
looks  slyly  down,  but  the  smile  has  fled. 

No  answer  comes. 

A  moment  longer,  and  the  foot-taps  cease;  one  or  two 
irresolute  moments  of  the  body,  and  then  the  white  arms, 
gleaming  out  from  the  loose  sleeves,  are  round  his  neck, 
and  the  brown  locks  and  the  golden  beard  are  mingled, 
while  the  little  head  goes  down  on  his  shoulder  amid  a 
storm  of  sobs. 

She  has  hit  her  bunion. 


THE  SOCIETY  REPORTER. 

A  very  short-haired  and  thick-necked  young  man  softly 
opened  the  door  of  the  fashion-editor's  room  yesterday 
afternoon,  and,  interrupting  that  party  in  the  midst  of  a 
powerful  article  on  the  proper  way  of  chewing  caromels, 


272  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


inquired  if  "  he  was  the  feller  what  put  in  the  pieces 
'bout  sports  'n  pastimes,"  because,  if  such  was  the  case? 
he  (of  the  short  hair)  had  an  eighteen-pound  bull-pup 
that  he  was  anxious  to  match  against  any  dog  on  the 
West  Side  for  from  $10  to  $25  a  side.  "  Don't  forgit," 
continued  the  possessor  of  this  remarkable  canine,  "  to 
say  that  the  dawg  is  ownded  by  our  well-known  fellow- 
citizen,  Mr.  Nibsey  No-Shirt;  'cos  all  them  West-Side 
blokes  knows  me,  and  they  know  I  represent  the  South- 
Side  gang.  Throw  in  somethin'  'bout  my  bein'  a  patron 
of  manly  sports,  and  I'll  give  you  a  pup  outer  'Red- 
Mouth  Sal,'  my  favorit,  the  one  that  fit  the  fight  two 
years  ago  in  New  York  agin  Reddy  the  Tarrier's  brindle, 
wich  is  still  considered  the  ekal  of  anything  in  those 
parts,  defeating  of  him  in  sixteen  minutes.  I'll  show  her 
to  yer,"  continued  the  happy  possessor  of  so  much 
ferocity,  as  he  opened  the  door  a  little  wider,  allowing  a 
bow-legged  dog,  with  an  under-jaw  like  a  steamboat-deck, 
to  enter  the  room.  The  fashion  editor  hastily  removed 
his  feet  from  the  floor,  and  said  that,  while  he  had  not 
the  slightest  doubt  of  the  fighting  qualities  and  general 
excellence  of  "  Sal,"  he  really  didn't  care  about  a  pup;  was 
obliged  to  the  gentleman,  however,  for  the  offer. 

"She's  got  a  pedergree,"  interjected  the  young  man, 
"what'll  make'yer  eyes  stick  out." 

"Good  gracious!  where  is  it?  I  don't  see  anything  of 
the  kind  around  here,"  said  the  compiler  of  fashionable 
statistics,  as  he  drew  farther  away  from  Sal.,  who  mani- 
fested an  unpleasant  interest  in  his  legs. 

"  Wha-a-t!  Don't  yer  know  what  a  pedergree  is?  You'er 
a  fine  duck  to  be  a  managin'  of  the  sportin'  news,  you 
are!" 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


"  But  I  am  not  the  sporting  man,"  said  the  reflex  of 
the  fashionable  world. 

"You  ain't,  hey?  Well,  for  the  sake  of  the  profession, 
I'm  glad  to  hear  yer  say  so.  I  was  about  half  onto  yer 
when  you  sprung  that  cigaret-case  on  me,  and  the  min- 
nit  I  got  a  flash  at  yer  yaller  kid  gloves  and  that  there 
touch-me-not  hat,  I  tumbled";  and  the  cheerful  party  in 
search  of  dog-fight  started  up-stairs. 


HERBERT'S  DEATH. 

"  No,  Herbert,  it  can  never  be." 

She  who  spoke  these  words  in  a  low,  sweet  voice, 
tinged  with  the  melancholy  that  even  an  ingenue  face  of 
the  most  pronounced  type  could  not  conceal,  leaned 
heavily  against  the  front  gate,  while  by  her  side,  bending 
low  over  the  little  head  with  its  wealth  of  golden  bangs, 
and  looking  with  earnest  expectancy  into  the  beautiful 
face,  every  feature  of  which  was  perfect,  stood  Herbert 
Hanafin.  He  had  known  Bertrace  Houlihan  from  the 
time  they  were  children  together,  and  the  boyish  friend- 
ship of  the  past  had  grown  into  a  passionate,  all-absorb- 
ing love  that  swayed  his  whole  nature.  She  was  the 
pole-star  of  his  existence,  the  first  base  of  his  life  work, 
reaching  not  which  he  could  never  hope  to  tally.  On 
this  calm,  star-lit  night  in  June  he  had  told  Bertrace  in 
his  simple,  earnest,  Wabash  Avenue  way,  of  his  love  for 
her,  and  asked  her  to  be  his  bride  It  was  this  avowal 
of  his  passion  that  caused  the  girl  to  speak  the  words 
with  which  our  story  opens. 
19 


274  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


They  fell  upon  his  ear  with  a  dull,  terrible  distinctness 
that  intensified  the  horror  which  their  import  caused. 
He  had  not  expected  this.  For  years  he  had  treasured 
in  his  heart  the  picture  of  a  vine-embowered  cottage  with 
Bertrace  crooning  softly  a  mother's  lullaby  to  a  dimple- 
faced  babe — their  child — while  her  love  for  him  bedecked 
with  sweet-scented  roses  life's  pathway,  and  the  child's 
innocent  prattle  made  music  far  sweeter  than  that  with 
which  the  silver-voiced  siren  of  old  so  vainly  sought  to 
lure  the  strong-limbed  Ulysses  from  his  ship. 

When  it  came  to  figuring  a  long  ways  ahead  Herb,  was 
a  pretty  handy  boy. 

And  now,  after  years  of  rose-tinted  dreams,  the  mist 
was  swept  away,  the  veil  torn  asunder,  and  the  dim  vista 
of  the  future,  so  lately  a  bower  of  sweet-smelling  vines, 
through  which  the  golden  sunshine  came  in  sparkling 
glints,  changed  into  a  trackless,  arid  waste,  where  des- 
olation reigned  supreme.  He  had  worked  with  every 
muscle,  and  nerve,  and  fibre  of  his  being  to  stand  at  the 
head  of  his  chosen  profession,  and  now,  when  the  goal 
was  reached,  and  he  stood  peerless  and  alone  in  all  his 
proud  beauty,  the  head  clerk  of  the  ribbon-counter,  a 
cruel  fate  had  snatched  from  his  eager  grasp  the  prize 
for  which  he  had  striven,  and  left  him  a  battered  wreck 
upon  the  rocky  shores  of  Desolation. 

"  God  grant,  Bertrace,"  Herbert  said,  in  broken  tones, 
"that  you  may  never  know  the  anguish  I  am  suffering  at 
this  moment.  Heaven  shield  you,  my  darling,  from  all 
harm  in  the  days  to  come — days  that  will  hold  for  me  only 
misery  and  heart-ache.  My  love  has  been  only  a  trifling 
episode  in  your  life,  but  should  misfortune  ever  cross  your 
path,  and  the  gaunt  demon  of  despair  enter  your  home, 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  275 

I 


remember  that  Herbert  Hanafin,  the  dry-goods  clerk,  is 
ever  your  friend  ' — and  with  these  words  the  young 
man  turned  sadly  away,  and  went  out  into  the  darkness. 

"  He's  pretty  tart,"  said  Bertrace  softly  to  herself  as 
she  walked  slowly  towards  the  house.  Once  inside  the 
palatial  residence  which  Stuyvesant  Houlihan  had  built 
for  his  only  daughter,  she  entered  the  parlor  and  sank 
languidly  on  a  fauteitil.  Presently  the  door-bell  rang. 
With  her  heart  throbbing  in  eager  expectancy  Bertrace 
went  quickly  into  the  front  hall,  only  to  be  clasped  close 
to  the  shirt  front  of  a  handsome  young  man  whose 
strong  arms  encircled  her  with  a  hay-press  earnestness 
that  admitted  of  no  doubt. 

'"You  have  come,  my  darling?"  said  the  girl,  a  bright 
smile  illuminating  her  features,  while  the  loving  look  and 
the  trustful  manner  in  which  she  placed  her  head  above 
his  right  lung  showed  plainer  than  could  words  the  depth 
of  the  love  she  bore  him. 

"  Yes,  sis,  I  am  here  again,"  and  implanting  on  her 
rosy-ripe  lips  a  rich,  pulsing  kiss  that  would  make  your 
head  swim,  he  walked  into  the  parlor  and  took  a  cigar 

from  Mr.  Houlihan's  box  that  stood  on  the  mantel. 
******* 

In  the  dim  half-light  of  the  front  porch  stood  Herbert 
Hanafin,  the  stricken  dry-goods  clerk.  Seeing  his  hated 
rival  approaching  the  house  after  he  had  left  Bertrace, 
he  followed  him  stealthily  and  had  witnessed  all.  When 
the  lovers  entered  the  parlor  he  turned  again  into  the  dark- 
ness and  went  swiftly  away.  At  the  corner  of  the  street 
he  suddenly  slackened  his  pace,  and  then,  with  a  wild 
shriek  of  anguish  threw  up  his  hands  and  disappeared, 

Herbert  Hanafin  had  fallen  .into  the  sewer, 


276    •  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


DEATHLESS    DEVOTION. 

"  Myrtle,  dear? " 

"Yes,  George,  what  is  it?"  replied  the  girl,  glancing 
shyly  upward. 

The  radiant  glory  of  a  summer  moon  shone  down 
upon  the  earth  this  June  night,  bathing  in  all  its  mellow 
splendor  the  leafy  branches  of  the  sturdy  old  oaks  that 
had  for  centuries  shaded  the  entrance  to  Castle  McCurtry 
and  laughed  defiance  to  the  fierce  gales  that  every  winter 
came  howling  down  in  all  their  cruel  force  and  fury  from 
the  moorlands  lying  to  the  westward  of  the  castle.  On 
the  edge  of  the  broad  demesne  that  stretched  away  to 
the  south  stood  a  large  brindle  cow,  and  as  the  moon- 
light flecked  with  silver  lustre  her  starboard  ribs  she 
seemed  to  Myrtle  a  perfect  picture  of  sweet  content  and 
almost  holy  calm. 

"Is  it  not  a  beautiful  night,  dearest?"  murmured  the 
girl.  "  See  how  the  moonbeams  flutter  down  through 
the  trees,  making  strange  lights  and  shadows  that  flit 
among  the  shrubs  and  flowers  in  such  a  weird,  ghost-like 
fashion.  The  dell  is  indeed  clothed  in  loveliness  to-night, 
sweetheart." 

"Yes,"  said  George  W.  Simpson,  "this  is  the  boss 
dell" — and  then,  looking  down  into  the  pure,  innocent 
face  that  was  lifted  to  his,  he  took  in  his  own  broad, 
third-base  palm  the  little  hand  that  erstwhile  held  up 
Myrtle's  polonaise.  As  they  stood  there  silently  in  the 
bosky  glade  George  passed  his  arm  silently  but  firmly 
around  Myrtle's  waist. 

The  noble  girl  did  not  shy. 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  277 

"  Do  you  love  me,  sweetheart? "  he  asked  in  accents 
that  were  tremulous  with  tremulousness. 

Myrtle's  head  was  drooping  now,  and  the  rosy  blushes 
of  Calumet  avenue  innocence  were  chasing  each  other 
across  her  peachy  cheeks. 

George  drew  her  more  closely  to  him.  If  a  mosquito 
had  tried  to  pass  between  them  then  it  would  have  been 
bad — for  the  mosquito. 

"Can  you  doubt  me,  darling?"  he  whispered.  "You 
surely  must  know  that  I  love  you  with  a  wild,  passionate, 
whoa-Emma  love  that  can  never  die.  Do  you  not  love 
me  a  little  in  return?" 

For  an  instant  the  girl  did  not  speak.  George  heard 
the  whisking  of  the  brindle  cow's  tail  break  in  rudely 
upon  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  night,  and  ever  and 
anon  came  the  dull  thud  of  the  bullfrog  as  he  jumped 
into  a  neighboring  pond.  Presently  Myrtle  placed  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  with  a  wistful,  baby's-got-the- 
cramp  look  in  her  sweet  face,  she  said  &  him:  "I  love 
you,  George,  with  a  deathless  devotion  that  will  eventually 
keep  you  broke."  And  with  these  fateful  words  she 
adjusted  her  rumpled  bang  and  fearlessly  led  the  way  to 
an  ice-cream  lair. 


OUR  GIRLS. 


"Good  day,  gentlemen." 

"Good  day,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  looking  up  and 
discovering  a  young  lady  in  the  apartment. 

"  I  would  like  to  show  you  a  work  which  I  am  selling," 


278  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


she  began,  "  and  am  sure  it  will  prove  both  interesting  and 
instructive." 

"  What's  it  about  ?"  asked  the  horse  reporter. 

"The  book,"  continued  the  fair  canvasser,  "is  by  one 
of  our  best  known  writers  and  speakers,  and  is  entitled 
'What  Shall  We  Do  with  Our  Girls?'  The  question  is 
certainly  one  of  paramount  importance,  and 

"  Are  your  girls  bothering  you  much  this  season? "  in- 
quired the  friend  of  Maud  S. 

"Why,  no,"  said  the  young  lady,  blushing  violently — 
"  that  is — why,  of  course  I  haven't  any  daughters.' 

"Oh,  you're  out  on  the  road  telling  people  what  to  do 
with  their  girls  before  you're  even  married,  let  alone  the 
mother  of  a  few  visions  of  loveliness  ?  Well,  that's  all 
right.  Some  of  our  best  cook-books  have  been  written 
by  people  who  didn't  know  a  gridiron  from  the  Fifteenth 
Amendment." 

"  But  this  question  of  what  shall  be  done  with  the 
girls  is  really  an  important  one,"  continued  the  young 
lady.  "  Have  you  ever  given  it  a  thought? " 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  have,"  replied  the  horse  reporter. 
"  I  suppose  we  might  tie  'em  up  in  the  back  yard  when  a 
circus  comes  to  town." 

"I  hardly  think  you  comprehend  the  question  in  all  its 
bearings.  What  is  the  legitimate  sphere  of  woman — in 
what  field  of  action  can  she  best  display  and  make  use  of 
the  God-given  talents,  attributes  of  mental  force,  and 
physical  grace  with  which  she  is  endowed  ?  These  are 
living,  burning  issues,  and  must  be  fairly  met.  When  we 
see " 

"All  right,"  said  the  horse  reporter,  "you  can  meet 
them  if  you  want  to.  Woman's  sphere,  so  far  as  I  have 


LAKESIDE  MUSIXGS.  279 


been  able  to  discover,  is  to  never  have  breakfast  on-  time. 
It  is  no  doubt  a  somewhat  limited  one,  but  she  is  gradual- 
ly reaching  out  into  the  great  unknown,  and  will  eventual- 
ly grasp  with  her  lily-white  fingers  the  black  demon  of 
Injustice  that  has  so  long  oppressed  her,  and  strangle  in 
the  very  stronghold  of  its  power  the  great  Wrong  which 
for  centuries  has  baffled  her  efforts  at  advancement  along 
the  great  highway  of  progress." 

"Why,  that's  lovely! "  exclaimed  the  young  lady. 
"  You  believe  in  lady-suffrage,  don't  you?  " 

"  Lady  who? " 

"  Lady  suffrage — believe  that  ladies  should  vote,  and 
have  all  the  political  privileges  that  are  accorded  men. 
That's  just  what  this  book  says.  That  chapter  is  per- 
fectly sweet.  It's  just  lovely." 

"  I  presume  so.  But  how  about  the  chapter  that  says 
women  should  not  cramp  and  distort  their  bodies  with 
corsets  and  their  feet  with  tight  shoes?  The  gaunt  de- 
mon of  unrest  that  lurks  in  the  maternal  bunion  may,  in 
the  child  of  that  mother,  become  an  ever-present  mon- 
ster of  pain." 

"  Oh,  those  chapters  are  horrid!  What  the  world  is  in- 
terested in  are  the  nobler  attributes  of  woman — her  soul 
and  heart." 

"Yes,  the  soul-and-heart  business  is  all  right,  but  you 
must  remember  that  the  humble  liver,  working  away  un- 
ostentatiously, is  also  a  pretty  good  scheme,  and  without 
health  woman  can  never  attain  success.  The  deadly 
clasp  of  the  steel-ribbed  corset  and  the  fatal  grip  of  the 
gleaming  garter  are  hurrying  to  early  graves  the  women 
of  our  land.  The  beautiful  eyes  that  should  sparkle  so 
brightly  are  dull  and  lustreless,  the  cheek  whose  white- 


2&o  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


ness  should  be  relieved  by  the  rosy  blush  of  health  is 
sallow  and  wan,  and  the  fairest  temple  ever  made  is 
rendered  a  ghastly  ruin  by  the  one  who  should  take  the 
greatest  pride  in  its  beauty." 

"  And  will  you  buy  a  book? "  asked  the  young  lady. 
"  I'm  sure  you  talk  beautifully." 

"No,"  replied  the  horse  reporter,  "I  can  not  buy  a 
book,  because  actions  speak  louder  than  words,  and  I  do 
not  wish  to  disturb  the  dramatic  critic  who  is  in  the  next 
room  trying  to  write  soul  without  a  large  S." 


OVERWHELMING    ODDS. 

"Avast  heaving." 

Capt.  Foamcrest  turned  quickly  on  his  heel  after  giving 
this  order  in  tne  sharp,  decisive  tone  habitual  to  seafaring 
men,  and  continued  to  pace  the  quarter-deck  of  the 
Avenger  with  regular  tread.  With  hands  behind  him  and 
eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  oaken  planks  which  upheld 
him  he  did  not  look  like  a  man  on  whose  mind  was  press- 
ing the  weight  of  a  great  responsibility — a  responsibility 
that  ere  the  sun  sank  to  rest  beneath  the  waters  might  ne- 
cessitate the  shedding  of  human  blood.  For  five  minutes 
he  paced  the  deck  in  silence,  and  then,  turning  with  a 
show  of  impatience  and  speaking  in  a  tone  that  betrayed 
irritation,  if  not  anger,  he  again  said:  "Avast  heaving." 

The  man  to  whom  the  command  was  addressed,  a  fine, 
brawny  fellow,  with  a  clear  eye  and  honest  face — in  fact, 
the  very  model  of  a  first-class  sailor,  drew  in  his  head 
from  over  the  bulwarks  and  replied:  "  I  can  not." 


LAKESIDE  MV sixes.  281 


"  How  long  have  you  been  in  the  American  navy,  my 
man?"  asked  the  Captain,  in  not  unkind  tones. 

"Ten  years,  sir,"  was  the  reply. 

"  And  is  this  your  first  experience  on  th'e  water? " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Very  well;  avast  heaving  as  soon  as  it  is  convenient." 

••  Aye,  aye,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  hitching  up  his  pants 
respectfully. 

The  Captain  walked  slowly  aft  and  addressed  the  man 
at  the  wheel — "  Old  Tom,"  a  grizzled  sea  dog,  who 
had  sailed  the  Wabash  under  Secretary  Thompson,  and 
seen  service  off  the  rock-bound  coast  of  Lemont  when 
a  hostile  constabulary  endeavored  to  attach  a  canal 
boat. 

"  How  does  she  head?  "asked  the  Captain,  looking  into 
the  binnacle. 

"  West  by  south,"  replied  old  Tom,  giving  the  wheel  a 
turn  and  glancing  aloft  to  see  that  the  topsails  were 
drawing.  "  I  think  we  shall  have  a  capful  of  wind  from 
the  north  to-night,"  he  added.  "  Yon  cloud  has  a  wicked 
look." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Captain.  "  I  will  tell  the  cook 
to  lash  the  beefsteak  to  the  galley  and  make  fast  the 

toothpicks,  in  case  anything  should  happen." 

******* 

Night  has  come. 

The  Avenger  is  cleaving  the  water  in  gallant  style,  the 
white  foam  curling  from  her  bow  as  she  comes  in  stays 
and  stands  away  on  the  starboard  tack.  The  quarter- 
deck is  deserted  save  by  Lieut.  Alltaut,  whose  watch  it 
is.  The  Captain  has  gone  below,  and  the  steady,  strident 
snore  that  is  wafted  upward  tells  that  he  is  asleep.  Slid- 


282  LAKESIDE  MUSINGS. 


denly  one  of  the  lookouts  comes  aft  and  touches  his  cap 
to  the  Lieutenant. 

"  There's  a  sail  on  the  port  bow,  sir,"  he  says. 

Lieut.  Alltaut  takes  his  glass  and  looks  in  the  direction 
indicated. 

"  It  is  the  pirate,"  he  says,  speaking  calmly,  as  do  all 
naval  officers — in  books.  "  Send  a  man  below  to  put  a 
clothes-pin  on  the  Captain's  nose.  And  while  you  are 
there  bring  up  my  cutlass  and  a  piece  of  pie." 

The  man  disappeared. 

,  In  the  meantime  preparations  had  been  made  for 
the  approaching  conflict.  The  men  were  stationed 
behind  the  bulwarks,  and  their  faces  wore  a  deter- 
mined look.  Nearer  and  nearer  drew  the  Avengtr  to 
her  prey  until  at  last  she  lay  alongside  the  dreaded 
oyster  pirate  of  Chesapeake  Bay.  Not  a  sign  of  life 
was  visible  on  the  craft.  From  the  mizzenmast  a  week's 
washing  flapped  dismally  in  the  night  wind.  Lieut. 
Alltaut  reached  over  the  Avenger's  side  and  grasped 
a  shirt,  thereby  being  enabled  to  hold  his  vessel 
steady.  The  men  witnessed  this  maneuvre  in  silent 
admiration.  Brilliant  seamanship  always  commands 
respect. 

"Ship  ahoy!"  called  the  Lieutenant. 

A  noise  was  heard  aboard  the  craft,  and  an  instant 
later  Black  Mike,  the  pirate,  appeared  on  deck.  He 
comprehended  the  situation  in  an  instant,  and  drawing  a 
huge  knife  from  his  boot  sprang  forward  to  cut  the  tail 
from  the  shirt  to  which  Lieut.  Alltaut  was  holding,  there- 
by allowing  the  Avenger  to  drift  into  the  darkness.  The 
officer  was  on  the  alert,  however,  and  felled  the  pirate  to 
the  deck  with  a  piece  of  the  Government  pie  which  he 


LAKESIDE  MUSINGS.  283 


had  not   had   time  to  eat.     The  man  rose  quickly,  but 
thoroughly  humbled. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  sullenly,  "  you  have  caught  me  at 
last." 

"  Do  you  surrender  ?"  asked  the  Lieutenant. 

"  No,"  answered  the  pirate,  with  a  horrible  oath;  "  I 
will  sell  my  life  dearly." 

"  Reflect  on  what  you  are  doing;"  and  Lieut.  Alltaul's 
voice  trembled  as  he  spoke.  "You  are  at  our  mercy. 
At  a  signal  from-me  100  copies  of  Secretary  Chandler's 
report  will  be  hurled  on  your  deck." 

My  God!"  said  the  pirate;  "are  you,  then,  devoid  of 
all  humanity?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Lieutenant;  "no  quarter  will  be 
given  if  the  battle  is  begun." 

The  pirate  looked  into  the  portholes  of  the  Avenger 
and  saw  the  muzzles  of  the  documents  frowning  at  him. 
"  Is  this  report  the  usual  length? "  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  And  you  have  really  got  100  copies  aboard?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I  surrender.  A  brave  defense  is  one  thing,  but 
suicide  is  another." 


FEDORA  ;  or  the  Tragedy  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  Translated 
from  the  French  of  ADOLPHE  B£LOT.  Illustrated.  12mo,  cloth, 
303  pages. 

A  most  original,  powerful  and  exciting  French  romance.  Every 
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modern  fiction. 

It  is  a  work  which  places  its  author  at  once  among  the  most  brilliant  and  powerful 
novelists  of  his  time— Albany  Sunday  Press. 

Since  the  appearance  of  "  Les  Miserables,"  nothing  of  French  authorship  hag  elicited 
such  unstinted  praise.— Newark  (N.  J.)  Call. 

"Fedora"  will  be  read  because  unregenerate  human  nature  is  bad.  It  is  a  French 
detective  story,  dealing,  as  all  such  stories  do,  with  a  mysterious  murder,  a  sharp  detect- 
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The  story  is  highly  exciting,  and  contains  numerous  love  scenes  peculiar  to  Paris. 
There  is  a  strength  of  diction  and  brilliancy  of  rhetoric  peculiar  to  the  eminent  French 
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As  a  detective  story  "  Fedora"  deserves  to  rank  with  Foe's  "  Murder  of  Marie  Roget," 
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The  dramatization  of  "  Fedora  "  has  created  a  furore  in  Paris,  and  is  regarded  as  one  of 
the  gems  of  Madame  Bernhardt's  repertoire.  It  is  thoroughly  French,  and  those  who 
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The  plot  is  remarkable  in  its  dramatic  handling,  points  of  suspense,  and  in  the  art  of 
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WON  AT  WEST  POINT;    a  Romance  on  the  Hudson.     By 

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dreary  monotony  of  "  riding  on  the  rail." 

The  valley  of  the  Hudson  has  been  the  scene  of  many  a  song  and  story,  of  legend  and 
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maintained  to  the  last.  -Albany  Sunday  Express. 

This  latest  addition  to  native  fiction  literature  is  a  witty,  entertaining  romance  of  the 
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A  lively  story,  based  on  gay  incidents  at  the  National  Academy,  written  by  a  graduate 
of  the  class  of  '81 .  *  *  *  A  pleasing  insight  is  given  to  the  interior  of  the  School,  with 
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Mailed,  on  receipt'  of  price,  by 

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THE  BLACK  SORCERESS ;    a  Tale  of  the  Peasants*  War. 

Adapted  from  the  French  of  ALFRED  DE  BREHAT.      Illustrated. 
12mo,  cloth,  300  pages.     Price,  $1.00. 

An  old  German  romance,  currying  one  back  to  feudal  and  chivalric 
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to  make  the  flesh  creep  and  the  heart  quiver  at  the  recital  of  the  brutal 
practices,  hideous  crimes  and  besotted  superstitions  of  that  benighted 
epoch.  The  story  is  full  of  astounding  mysteries,  hellish  incantations  and 
diabolical  plots. 

A  pood,  old  fashioned,  romantic  story,  from  the  French  of  Alfred  do  Brehat  by  V.  P.  H 
The  scene  is  laid  in  (iennany  at  the  period  of  the  Peasant*'  War,  in  the  first  half  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  It  dents  with  those  ever  popular  and  twin  themes,  love  and  war. 
Sarah,  the  mysterious  nu*k«d  sorceress,  dwells  in  the  midst  of  an  almost  inaccessible 
swamp,  and  exerts  a  great  influence  over  the  8ii perditions  i>ensai>tv  She  proves  to  be  imt 
an  old  hag,  but  the  beautiful  Zilda,  for  whom  the  hero,  Count  Louis,  had  once  a in- 
fancy, and .who  in  jealous  rage  swears  vengeance  upon  him  and  his  betrothed.  Th«  re  is 
plenty  of  ini  ideut.  and  in  the  end  the  good  are  made  happy  and  the  evil  are  punished. 
The  book  is  fairly  well  illustrated  and  the  letter-press  and  paper  are  unusually  good.— 
New  York  Herald. 

It  is  an  old  fashioned,  historical  novel.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Germany,  and  the  tale  is 
one  of  love,  passion,  patriotism,  war,  superstition,  and  magic.  It  is  wierd  and  exciting. 
The  characters  ore  mo  t!y  lovable,  and  even  the  Sorceress  in  her  jealors  fury  inspires 
pity.  —  Boston  Globe. 

There  is  no  lack  of  skill  in  the  vividly  painted  characters,  or  the  plot  and  counter- 
plot.— Chicago  Inter  Ocean. 

FUN  BETTER  THAN  PHYSIC.     By  W.  W.  HALL,  M.  I).     12m<>, 

cloth,  334  pages.     Price,  fl.OO. 

Maxims  and  precepts  which  he  who  runs  may  read,  mark  and  inwardly 
digest,  with  amazing  profit.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  the  ages  in  concrete. 
Worth  a  whole  apothecary  shop  full  of  patent  nostrums.  Well  people 
who  follow  Dr.  Hull's  mandate?  will  never  need  a  doctor,  and  sick 
people  will  soon  "throw  physic  to  the  dogs." 

.*  *  *  The  author  believes  that  good  food,  pure  air  and  a  cheerful  disposition  are 
better  than  phycic,  and  most  of  his  ideas  are  full  of  homely  practical  wisdom  and  common 
BVH&Z.— Philadelphia  Prtst. 

•  *    *    The  book  in  one  which  can  be  read  at  any  time  with  profit,  and  on   every 
page  of  which  can  be  found  some  aphorism. —The  Day,  Baltimore,  Md. 

*  *    *    One  of  Dr.  Hall's  most  popnlar  works,  and  very  widely  circulated.    •       * 

A  collection  of  nphorisni*  and  instructions,  each  a'nne^et  of  wisdom  or  of  information  on 
important  subjects,  more  or  .ess  valuable.—  St.  Paul  Daily  Dispatch. 

SUPPRESSED  SENSATIONS;  or  Leaves  from  the  Note- 
Book  of  a  Chicago  Reporter.  Illustrated.  12mo,  cloth, 
254  pages.  Price  $1.00. 

Thirteen  sketches  of  absorbing  interest—  (truths  that  are  indeed  stranger 
than  any  fie  lion.  Every  great  metropolis  like  Chicago  has  a  moral 
cesspool,  in  which  all  possible  crimes  mingle  and  gurgle  together,  and 
beside  which  Bedlam  is  n,  myth,  .and  Babylon  is  double-discounted  every 
tweuiy-four  hours.  Tiiis  book  has  already  reached  an  enormous  sale,  and 
there  is  a  constant  demand  for  new  and  increased  editions. 

A  number  of  article*  more  thrilling  than  those  which  usually  get  into  tke  news- 
papers.— Chicago  Tribune. 

They  are  all  of  absorbing  interest.-  Chicago  Times. 

For  obvious  reasons  some  changes  have  been  made  in  names  and  locations,  but  the 
tales  are  what  they  purport  to  be— leaves  from  the  note-book  of  a  reporter.— Evening 
Journal. 


THE  EXECUTIONER'S  REVENGE.    Translated  from  the  French 
of  LEONCE  FEBBET.    12mo,  cloth.  318  pages.    Price,  $1.00. 

A  story  of  the  French  Revolution,  in  which  the  wild  passions  of 
that  bloody  period  found  vent  in  private  feuds  as  well  as  popular 
upheavals.  An  intensely  tragic  romance. 

A  very  intense  French  novel  by  an  able  writer,  most  admirably  translated.  It  is 
original  in  conception,  a  plot  deep  and  well  developed,  the_  interest  sustained  to  the  very 
end.  The  dialogue  is  crisp  and  bright,  the  situations  dramatic,  and  the  whole  story  exceed- 
ingly well  told.—  Toledo  Blade. 

A  fine  piece  of  typographical  work,  and  very  creditable  to  the  well-known  house  from 
which  it  is  issued.  Tho  story  is  more  dignified  than  the  usual  run  of  French  stories.— 
Indianapolis  Daily  Journal. 

WAS  IT  A  MURDER?  or  Who  is  the  Heir?    From  the  French 
of  FORTUNE  DU  BOISGOBEY.      12mo,  cloth,  341  pages.    Price,  $1.00. 

A  highly  entertaining  romance,  relating  to  French  provincial  life 
and  modern  people.  The  plot  is  complicated,  the  characters  superbly 
drawn,  and  the  story  so  charmingly  told  that  the  reader's  interest  is  fully 
sustained  from  the  opening  to  the  close  of  the  volume. 

OVERLAND  GUIDE,  from  the  Missouri  River  to  the  Pacific 

Ocean.     Illustrated.    CHAS.  8.  QLEED,  Editor.     12mo,  845  page«. 
Price,  $1.00  in  cloth,  50  cents  in  paper. 

Something  quite  different  from  the  ordinary  guide-book  species. 
There  is  nothing  ephemeral  about  it.  It  was  not  made  to  order,  nor  is  it 
the  result  of  an  ill-digested  cram  at  the  libraries.  It  tells  all  about  places 
of  note  on  the  great  lines  of  travel  through  Kansas,  Colorado,  New 
Mexico,  Arizona,  and  California.  Besides  its  descriptions  of  scenery,  it  is 
crowded  v;;t"  information  derived  from  personal  inquiry  and  practical 
observation,  and  written  in  a  pleasing,  graceful  style  of  conscientious 
accuracy  and  subdued  imagination.  It  contains  also  the  Mining  Laws  of 
the  United  States,  repeal  provisions  and  regulations,  and  Mining  Laws  of 
Colorado,  Arizona,  and  New  Mexico.  An  invaluable  book  of  reference 
or  for  solid  information  sought  by  the  traveler,  whether  bent  on  business 
or  pleasure. 

*  *    *    It  is  indispensable.    *     *     *    No  one  taking  the  favorite  western  trip  can 
afford  to  be  without  H.— Kansas  City  Journal. 

*  *    *    It  is  safe  to  say  that  no  question  asked  by  the  multitudinous  western  tourists 
and  immigrants  remains  unanswered  by  the  editor  of  the  Overland  ffuide.    *    *    *    The 
numerous  and  fine  illustrations  with  which  the  Overland  Guide  is  embellished  make  it  a 
handsome  as  well  as  a  useful  addition  to  any  library.— The  Capital,  Topeka,  Kant. 

*  *    *    The  book  forms,  in  fact,  a  veritable  encyclopedia  of  information  upon  the 
population,  agriculture,  topography,  geography,  mineralogy,  scenery  and  antiquities  of 
the  region  which  it  describes,  and  upon  these  points  is  a  ready-reference  manual  of  the 
handiest  sort. — The  Interior,  Chicago. 

*  *    *    It  is  a  publication  of  great  value  to  the  thousands  who  for  various  reasons 
are  interested  in  the  region  described.— Chicago  Times. 

*   *    *    *    It  gives  a  vast  amount  of  useful  and  practical  information  ne>er   before 
compiled.    *    *    The  illustrations  a  e  very  fine.— Detroit  Free  Press, 


RAND,  MCNALLY  &  CO.'S  MAP  PUBLICATIONS 

Rand,  McNnlly  »fc  Co.'m  Indexed  Allan  of  the  World,     (gold  only* by 
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face  of  the  Globe,  together  with  historical,  statistical  and  descriptive  matter  rela- 
tive to  each.  Illustrated  by  colored  diagrams,  showing  increase  or  decrease  of 
population,  wealth,  debt  and  taxation,  civil  condition  of  people,  chief  productions, 
articles  of  manufacture  and  commerce,  religion*  sect,*,  etc.  Accompanied  by  a  new 
mid  original  compilation,  forming  a  ready-reference  Index,  which  presents  as  its 
special  feature,  the  arrangement  in  alphabetical  order  of  nearly  all  known  geograph- 
ical names.  In  connection  herewith  la  given  the  population  of  every  city,  town  and 
village  in  the  world ;  that  of  the  United  States  of  America  being  taken  from  the 
census  returns  of  1880.  93  maps,  251  diagram*,  SW8  pages. 
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America,  Cuba,  and  the  several  States  and  Territories  of  the  United  States,  to- 
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by  a  new  aud  original  compilation  and  ready-reference  Index,  and  accurately  locat- 
ing all  cities,  towns,  post-offices,  railroad  stations,  villages,  counties,  parishes, 
islands,  lakes,  rivers,  mountains,  etc.,  showing  in  detail  the  entire  Railroad  System. 
The  new  and  special  features  of  this  edition  are  locating  the  branches  or 
particular  divisions  of  railroads  upon  which  each  station  is  located,  the  nearest 
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companies  have  offices,  and  the  full  census  returns  to  date.  500  pages. 
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and  Northwest.    Bound  In  cloth.   Price,  85. OO. 

Containing  the  special  features  of  the  complete  Business  Atlas  and  large  scale 
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Indiana  Indian  Territory,  Texas,  Iowa,  Kansas,  Kentucky,  Louisiana,  Manitoba 
(Prov.  Can.).  Michigan,  Minnesota,  Mississippi,  Missouri,  Nebraska,  Ohio,  Ten- 
nes.-ee,  \Vi-consin. 
Rand,  McNally  <k  Co.'m  New  Indexed  Atlas  of  the  MIssiHslppl  Valley 

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souri, Montana,  Nebraska,  Nevada,  New  Mexico,  Ohio,  Oregon,  Tennessee,  Texas, 
Utah,  Washington,  Wisconsin,  Wyoming. 
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States   and   Canada,    mounted   upon   cloth,   with   rollers  top   and 

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accommodating  itself  to  any  required  space,  8  Hi. 00. 

Compiled  from  the  latest  Government  surveys,  and  drawn  to  an  accurate  scale ; 
size,  100x58  inches;  scale,  32  miles  to  one  inch;  borders  of  States  and  Counties 
beautifully  tinted,  colors  being  printed  from  plates  secured  by  letters  patent.  This 
work  has  occupied  two  years  in  compilation  and  engraving,  at  a  cost  of  nearly 
$20,000;  plates  nave  been  carefully  corrected  to  date,  presenting  the  finest  work  of 
Art  of  its  kind.  This  Map  is  deserving  of  special  mention  as  being  the  first  map 
of  the  United  States  made  upon  a  geometrical  projection  since  the  war. 
Rand,  McNally  &  Co.'s  New  Railroad  and  County  Map,  extending 

from  the  Atlantic  Coast   to  Groat  Salt  .Lake,  size  SO  x  38  inches, 

In  colors,  mounted    upon   heavy  paper,  rollers   top  and   bottom  (a 

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at  n  popular  price.    Retail,  85.00. 
Rand,  McNally  A  Co.'s  General  Map  of  the  Republic  of  Mexico,  con* 

HIT  in-led  from  the  bc-t  authorities,  Knowing  the  completed  and  pro 

potted   Railways,  SteamHhlp    routed   and    telegraphic  commuulca. 

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<-ii HI-,  for  portable  use,  815. OO. 

Hand,  McNally  «.V  Co.'s  New  Railroad  and  Connty  Map  of  the  Terri- 
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and  Canada. 

showing  all  the  Counties.  Railroads  and  Principal  Towns  up  to  date.  It  Is 
eminently  adapted  both  for  school  and  office  purposes.  Size,  58x41  inches.  Scale 
about  sixty  miles  to  one  inch.  Price,  mounted  on  rollers,  on  heavy  paj>er,  $2  00; 
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RAND,  MCNALLY  &  co/s 


—  OP  — 

FOREIGN  COUNTRIES. 

Afghanistan,  see  Persia  ......................................................  f 

Africa,  mounted  on  rollers,  65x58  inches  ....................................  11  50 

Africa,  in  three  sheets,  two  being  21x14  inches,  and  one  14x11  inches,  and 

showing  plans  of  cities  of  Algiers  and  Tunis  ..........................  75 

Alaska,  14x11  inches.    Not  kept  in  stock  ................................... 

Asia,  mounted  on  rollers,  65x58  inches  .....................................  17  50 

Asia,  21  x!4  inches.     Not  kept  in  stock  ..................................... 

Australia  and  New  Zealand,  with  plans  of  Sydney  and  Port  Jackson,  21x14  in.  50 

Austro-  Hungarian  Monarchy,  with  plan  of  Vienna.  21  x  14  inches  ...........  50 

Belgium  and  The  Netherlands,  with  plan  of  Brussels,  21  x  14  inches  .........  50 

British  America  (Dominion  of  Canada),  21  x  14  inches.    Not  kept  in  stock  .  . 

Central  America,  14x11  inches  ..............................................  50 

China,  21  x  14  inches  ....................................  ...^  ...............  1.  50 

Cuba,  21x14  inches  ........................................................  50 

Denmark,  with  North  portion  of  the  German  Empire,  comprising  Schleswig, 

Holstein  and  Laueuburg,  11  x  14  inches  ................................  50 

England  and  Wales,  21  r  14  inches,  with  Index  of  cities,  towns,  etc  .........  75 

Europe,  21x14  inches  ........................................................  50 

Europe,  mounted  on  rollers,  65  x  58  inches  .........  .  ........................  17  50 

Prance,  21  x  14  inches,  with  plan  of  Paris,  and  Index  to  cities,  towns,  etc  .....  75 

Germany,  in  two  sheets,  21  x  14  inches  each,  with  Index  to  cities,  towns,  etc..    1  00 

Greece,  and  the  Ionian  Islands,  21  x  14'  inches...  .............  _____  ...........  50. 

India.  Indo-China  and  Further  India,  with  plans  of  Calcutta  and  Bombay. 

21xl4inches  .........................................................  50 

Ireland,  21  x  14  inches,  with  Index  to  cities,  towns,  etc  ......................  75 

Italy,  21  x  14  inches  ..........................................................  50 

Japan,  in  two  sheets,  21  x  14  inches  each  ....................................    1  00 

Mexico.  21x14  inches  ........................................................  50 

Netherlands  see  Belgium  ................................................... 

New  Zealand,  see  Australia  ................................................. 

North  America,  mounteS  on  rollers,  65x58  inches  ..........................  17  50 

North  America,  showing  the  West  India  Islands  and  Central  America,  21  x!4 

inches.    Not  kept  in  stock.  .  ..........................................  . 

Palestine,  with  plans  showing  Environs  of  Jerusalem,  journeyings  of  Christ, 

and  sketch  showing  divisions  into  tribes.    21x14  inches  ..............  50 

Persia  and  Afghanistan,  14x11  inches  .......................................  50 

Portugal,  see  Spain  .......................................................... 

Ruscia  (European),  21  x  14  inches  ............................................  50 

Scotland,  21  x  14  inches,  with  Index  to  cities,  towns,  etc  ....................  75 

South  America,  mounted  on  rollers,  65x58  inches  ..........................  1750 

South  America,  in  two  sheets,  21  x  14  inches,  showing  plans  of  Bay  of  Rio  de 

Janeiro,  Isthmus  of  Panama  and  City  of  Buenos  Ayres  ................  75 

Spain  and  Portugal,  with  plans  of  Madrid  and  Lisbon,  21x14  inches  ........  50 

Sweden  and  Norwnv  21  x!4  inches  ......................  ^  .................  ..  50 

Switzerland,  21  x  14  inches  .  .................................................  50 

Turkey  in  Asia  (Asia  Minor),  and  Transcaucasia,  21x14  inches  .............  50 

Turkey  in  Europe,  21  x  14  inches  .............................................  50 

World,  on  Mercator's  Projection,  21x14  inches  .............................  50 

All  of  above  pocket  Maps  are  neatly  bound  in  cloth  cases. 

We  make  the  production  of  maps  a  specialty,  and  keep  the  largest  stock  of  map 
plates  in  the  country.  Are  prepared  to  furnish  Authors  and  Publishers  with  maps 
to  illustrate  Books  of  Travel  and  Historical  and  Educational  Works  at  a  merely 
nominal  charge  over  the  cost  of  paper  and  printing. 

Maps  which  require  to  be  specially  prepared,  are  compiled,  engraved  and  printed 
with  the  utmost  care  and  accuracy. 

A  full  1  ne  ol  Maps  of  the  States  and  Terri  lories  in  TJ.  S.  and  of  Foreign  countries, 
on  a  large  scale:  also,  of  Modern  Geographical,  Classical,  Political.  Phynir-1, 
Astronomical,  Biblical,  Anatomical  and  Biological  Atlases,  Globes  and  Map  Kathj. 
kept  in  stock. 

BAND,  McNALLY  &  CO.,  Publishers,  Cl  —  >go. 


000  082  942 


